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APRIL 2013ISSUE 4

TONGUE

EARTH DAY

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FROM THE EDITORAs we are surrounded by threats of nuclear war, the unstoppable march of technology, fields full of living hamburgers and retreating natural beauty we are sated by comedy and social media. We turn our backs to the serenity of the nature that bore us and most seek out intoxication to numb the monotony; we have in turn been rendered useless by what we created. The Mars One project is a solution, to be rocketed into space, bombarded by radiation, and left in a wasteland to be watched -by those who live vicariously- on unforgiving screens; it is an experiment that we are not ready for. It won’t be on TV for long. So when you step outside and walk and see nature peering through the city walls, or rebelling against manicured fields make sure you

INSIDEJemma UtleyEditor in Chief

Olivia AucklandCo-Editor

Jennifer McleanColumnist

Leanne CartwrightColumnist

Symon RoseColumnist

Hamid JallohMarketing

Elise PMarketing / Editor

Samuel PyleCreative Director

Jack UtleyPhotography

encourage it. There is only one chance at existence for every being on this planet. So this month we are showing you what we have and what we are losing with wonderful pieces of work from you, the readers. We value every submission and every positive response and love to see your continued support

SPECIAL THANKS

Olivia AucklandCover Art

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EARTH DAY

CREATIVE SUBMISSIONS

TONGUE SUBMISSIONS

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EARTH DAY For this month’s ‘Team Work’ we have a look back (written by Symon Rose) at the Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, who sought for the world to be ‘green to the very door’ and helped give those the Industrial Revolution adversely affected the space to speak. He also gives advice on how to build ‘Worlds in Words.’ Leanne Cartwright considers the ‘Good, the Bad and the Ugly’ of environmental book-to-movie adaptations with Journey to

the Centre of the Earth, The Road and The Time Machine. Olivia Auckland takes us on a tour of the naturally beautiful areas of Nottingham as well as passionately discussing our dysfunctional relationship with Mother Nature. Leanne presents us with nature’s point of view as she reviews Southcrop Forest by Lorne Rothman. For next month’s edition we are looking to expand our writing team. Keep your eyes peeled for our article writing competition!

FEATURE

Jemma UtleyEditor

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INTERVIEWFEATURE

When it unexpectedly rained, or a thunderstorm hit, or the rough winds shook the darling buds of May, my Mother would say, ‘It is just Mother Nature reminding us she is in control’. From my mama, a strong woman with three daughters, it is unsurprising that the powerful aspects of nature were attributed to a woman. I say this phrase myself now; it gives me pleasure to consider that not just the beautiful, delicate aspects of nature, but also the fiercely dominant, can be female. Apart from of course a select few creatures, the woman is the life-giver; the layer of the eggs. Throughout history and across cultures, Mother Nature is the bearer and the Mother of life: Hindu goddess Shakti is “The Womb

of Everything”, the Hebrew myth of human creation has “Mother of all Living Beings”, the Biblical “Queen of Heaven”, Mama Watta or “the Mother of Waters’ in African Nigeria, Mother Gaia the Greek Earth Goddess – worshipped by the Romans as Terra Mater meaning “the Great Mother”. Worldwide we have held the divinity of Mother Nature as the fertility of the earth, the womb of the oceans, and an unstoppable force. An online news site wrote of the meteor that hit Russia as ‘an unexpected and explosive reminder of how little control humans have when it comes to our world and our universe’. The subtitle of the article declared humans were ‘At Mother Nature’s Mercy’. Not really a positive personification, but the recognition of our “female earth” as

powerful and potentially formidable is widespread. So where is this written in fiction? Beyond scripture and apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic novels, it doesn’t really seem to be. The representation of Mother Nature in literature is predominantly the personification of flowers, birds, rolling fields…all things pure, natural, graceful, and unassuming. We have all trudged at some point through The Lyrical Ballads, and the personification of nature-as-docile-female throughout Romanticism. Poets and travel writers in particular have attributed nature with feminine qualities that adhere to defined gender spheres. It seems strange that from ancient times and through to today, a worldwide appreciation of Mother Nature

M O T H E R N A T U R EThe representation, and personification of Nature in literature.

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Olivia AucklandCo-Editor

as strong and powerful, and her representation in literature, fails to correlate. The complexity of her manifestations seems to have often been missed, somehow. Yet again, Emily Dickinson rears her magnificent head from the drove. In poem 348 of Everyman’s Poetry, ‘not a creature failed – No Blossom stayed away/In gentle deference to me – The Queen of Calvary’, the coming of spring is an unstoppable force of nature. There is widespread recognition of this poem as a reference to biblical crucifixion, but ‘Calvary’ also means an inevitable torment. Mother Nature here is a Queen;

the ruler of the seasons. Dickinson also personifies birds throughout her poetry, and most notably, they often seem to be her equals: ‘Because I grow – where Robins do’. Dickinson, as a poet, as a woman, as a breaker of the norm, as an absolute individual, as the excluded and the excluder, finds allies in the birds- in the fruits of Mother Earth. Saying this, Dickinson too refers to Mother Nature as a nurturer, as ‘the gentlest mother’, with ‘infinite affection’. Dickinson certainly is not one for directly focusing on the forceful, relentless and violent elements of nature.

IT SEEMS STRANGE THAT FROM ANCIENT TIMES AND THROUGH TO TODAY, A WORLDWIDE APPRECIATION OF MOTHER NATURE AS STRONG AND POWERFUL, AND HER REPRESENTATION IN LITERATURE, FAILS TO CORRELATE.

So who is? Where is she? Where is the Mother Nature who has not just the gift of fertility to make the flowers grow and the grass green, but the strength to make the heavens pour and the earth tremble?

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INTERVIEWFEATURE

A staple of GCSE and A Level literature curriculum ‘The Lyrical Ballads’ was a project primarily lead by Wordsworth, with some key contributions from Coleridge. It is a cornerstone of modern poetry as it sought to revolutionise poetic conventions: elitist Classicism was scrapped for natural speech, simple themes replaced symbolism and emotion replaced abstract thought, all in the context of celebrating nature opposed to urban greatness. Whilst revolutionary to its contemporaries it is dated by modern standards and I fear often relegated to the boring school literature often forgotten after exams are over, yet it continues to influence new generations of poets with its simple beauty. Arguably one of the biggest attractions of this text is Coleridge himself - an opium addict who frequently wrote under the influence - he seems something of

a forerunner to modern rock stars producing genius works where most of us would spew drug-addled nonsense. The pinnacle of this, in many ways, lies in his main contribution to the ballads – ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ It is a poem epic of proportions, which absorbs nearly half the book, recounting the fantastic adventures of the Mariner. In a tale infused with a hint of the otherworldly we are treated to many mighty sights of the world – raging storms, a guiding Albatross, ice locked glaciers and ships from beyond the grave. If you can get past the old language and sink yourself in to this world it is a thrilling and detailed tale filled with the majesty of nature and a nice helping of fantasy that is truly worth the time to read. Having enjoyed Coleridge thusly we cannot neglect Wordsworth’s many contributions. If we called Coleridge a

forerunner to the drug-addled rock star then Wordsworth was a forerunner to Freud and many other psychoanalysts. Having seen revolutions, war and the Enlightenment period he was troubled by reason, logic and how the mind saw the world which led him to develop his own thoughts about the purity of the child’s view of the world. This view is explained throughout his works where he muses on nature, trying to recapture that perfection lost through age, and whilst simplistic does embody many of the core concepts of modern psychology. His works are more sombre and grounded in reality than Coleridge’s. Yet their attempts to capture the truth of nature, free from the pollution of logic, contain the real beauty of the English landscape. As a bit of a fantasist I find Wordsworth work a more challenging read, but for any poetry purist, they are probably a

LITERARY LOOK BACKT h e L y r i c a l B a l l a d s – W i l l i a m W o r d s w o r t h & S a m u e l T a y l o r C o l e r i d g e

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more potent reading experience than Coleridge’s work. For anyone seeking to capture nature, be it fantastical or real, poetic or prose ‘The Lyrical Ballads’ is a must read. Old fashioned and on a prolifically used theme though it may be it is the corner stone that started much of European poetry’s modern standards, and managed to capture nature in a way few can equal. Thusly it can offer

If I told you there was a book, two books actually, written as recently as the 1990s that is a cultural icon about tampering with nature that you will definitely know and you probably even could name several characters and plot points from; but you probably have never read it or even know it exists you’d probably think I’m lying. But have you ever picked up Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton? I’m guessing no, even speaking to my book loving friends in the team itself most were oblivious to the book’s existence (even though the titles of the film mention it!).

In the opening pages of the novel you’d be forgiven for staring blankly at the page wondering where is the film you know and love – the book has a lot of differences from the film including the opening. The story is a much richer experience than the film thanks to a few more types of dinosaurs, a nice slathering of mystery and a extra helping of science - don’t mistake this for a criticism of the films, they do the job well and from a cinematic view point the changes are there for a reason – but nevertheless I recommend the book to add extra depth to your understand. Anyway

to the text at hand, the opening of Jurassic Park - we begin with a series of very strange animal attacks in Costa Rica terrifying locals, which is closely followed by similar attacks to construction workers on a tropical island. The main differences in plot for the first instalment centre on deaths, breeding dinosaurs and the finale, which leaves a nice cliff-hanger I won’t spoil for you. Five years after the original novel (and two after the film) Crichton produced The Lost World due to popularity from fans and Spielberg’s desire to make a sequel. In this case the choices made between film and book are far more questionable, we still have the B site but the characters, layout of the island and major plot areas are vastly altered. Again, the film is amazing, but personally the book has a far greater story which any Jurassic Park fan would revel in. The only flaw with the book is it feels very self-contained, there isn’t really any reference to the cliff-hanger left by the original and there is a slightly too convenient twist to resolve what happens to the remaining dinosaurs, but the midsection are full of the science and dinosaur action combination that makes Jurassic Park amazing. This iconic tale of tampering with nature for our generation is a brilliant film, but the books are even greater. They may not be world class literature, but for anyone who loves the franchise they are not something to be overlooked or forgotten. And for real fanatics I’d also give a nod to Telltale Games’ Jurassic Park game – it bridges the world of the books with the world of the film in a story rich experience, all be bit a little short

THE LOST BOOKS

Symon RoseColumnist

great lessons to any work you may wish to pursue in a backdrop of the natural world

Symon RoseColumnist

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INTERVIEWREVIEW

Southcrop Forest by Lorne Rothman is a very well thought through and well written eco-fantasy experiment for teenage and young adult readers. The story begins in the mind of a tree called Auja and introduces the idea that every tree is connected through the forest web (or Southcrop vision as it is known in the book) and they are losing their farms (forests) to the hewmans (humans). No detail is spared as Rothman describes every single creature and tree whether they are big or small breathing life into an unknown and unseen world. Rothman even goes as far as to include an appendix in the back of the book with more educational information on every living thing and the locations that are mentioned. The trees are given thoughts but are not personified, they see with their leaves and are still firmly rooted to the spot, travelling with their minds not their bodies. The fact that the trees remain inhuman, except for gendering, allows for enough

distance to give their plight more effect on the reader. Rothman gives the trees centuries of knowledge, history and an awareness of their situation. They are not afraid of death itself but more the idea that they will lose the memories and stories that have been passed down through the many centuries to before the arrival of the hewmans. That is where Fur comes in. Fur is not a singular being, like the forest he is a shared consciousness, a colony of tent caterpillars. Fur can crawl and therefore is able to travel, unlike the trees, and so becomes the forests only way to communicate with other forests that have become beyond their reach after the fake rock (road) separated them. Fur faces many dangers from predators and a plague that is wiping out all the tent caterpillars. His biggest threat, however, is the carelessness of man illustrated in a single moment when a roller (car) almost crushes Fur to death under its wheel. Despite being for younger audiences Southcrop Forest really grabbed my attention and I would

seriously recommend it to anyone for the way it forces the reader to rethink their own importance and significance on this planet. The novel enforces the view that every living creature on this planet is incredibly important, from a large oak tree to a tiny colony of tent caterpillars

SOUTHCROP FORESTA n o v e l b y L o r n e R o t h m a n

Leanne CartwrightColumnist

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INTERVIEWFEATURE

Often when you sit and stare at that blank page waiting for a story – prose or poetic - to begin you will fixate on a character, concept or loose story idea. Of course these three elements are cornerstones of any good piece of writing, but I always think there is a fourth pillar needed to hold the work together, one that is often forgotten or neglected by budding writers. I don’t think this pillar is vital to most poetry where words come at an extreme premium, but for longer works the very fabric of the world is just as important as the people and events that inhabit it. Perhaps I am acutely aware of this as primarily a fantasy writer; we after all are tasked with entirely fictionalising everything and planting it firmly in a reader’s mind where as most other genres can slip into the lazy ways of assuming the reader knows all.

The core element of the world is one that enshrines the golden rule of show, don’t tell, wherever possible. Many new writers, and more experienced alike, will forge into a piece extolling how Gary Martins is a slob and a pervert with a penchant for alcohol living in a small London flat – but here at once our world can take so much of this to show opposed to tell. So Gary has a small London flat, great, now how about it’s a small London flat strewn with unwashed clothes and the wrapper from last night’s take away? Already the world of Gary has gained many levels and the reader can tell this guy is a bit of a slob; what then if we perhaps include a beer stained carpet dotted with empty bottles and clippings from page 3 stuck to the fridge? Of course you have to be careful to not overfill a world with mundane details, but do not be afraid of adding small details that have little to do with the

plot they are a great tool in blending a character into their surroundings and speaking volumes about them that a few strapped on adjectives cannot. This same concept can be applied on any scale, depending on the context of the work. If it’s a fantasy epic with lots of knights take the time to learn about some weapon and armour types so they can wield daggers, dirks, flails and more in their half-helms, mail, plate or leather opposed to all be just armoured with a sword in hand. Or ensure a forest is a mass of gnarled yews and broad oaks, not just a forest. If it’s a gritty inner-city tale make sure there’s distinct differences between areas be it a mud-ridden slum, a diamond paved wizard’s guild, a barren concrete council estate, and a polished glass high street. These details may not seem like much to you, but this story is in your head. You can see it

WORLD IN WORDS

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Symon RoseColumnist

all already but you need to put more on the page to enrich the world your reader is being presented. There is a balancing act to be learned, you can’t overload a reader with paragraphs of minute details but having spent several years reading the works of others and seeing them grow (as I have too) the greatest lesson I could

give anyone is be sure to give it a try. Many of my friends went from decent writers to brilliant writers just with those little details. Just slip in extras that can enrich a character or add more flavour to a location – if you’re firmly in the real world you won’t need much to nudge a reader to the right image. A fantasist may face a greater task, but if the

building or place is worth it you can invest a fair amount of description so it is still worth the effort. Just always remember a character or a story can only be as rich as the world in which they are placed, and they can only seem as realistic as their surroundings do

JUST ALWAYS REMEMbER A CHARACTER OR A STORY CAN ONLY bE AS RICH AS THE WORLD IN WHICH THEY ARE PLACED, AND THEY CAN ONLY SEEM AS REALISTIC AS THEIR SURROUNDINGS.

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BULWELL

HIGHBURY VALE

OLD BASFORD

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WOLLATON

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Black and white, grey concrete, bright lights, noise and light pollution. Living in a bustling city, it is easy to forget the green of nature that earth has to offer us. I was born by the sea, and grew up in a cottage in the coun-try side. I came to the city to seek emanci-pation and excitement and opportunity, but I still miss the feeling of contentment that only comes with a bit of romanticism. Judg-ing by how, in Nottingham, we flock to the canal-side, Wollaton Park, and the Arbore-tum as soon as the ground heats up; there are thousands of city residents who also seek green space. We take a look at 32 wildlife ar-eas tucked away in Nottingham, behind the industrialisation, the red-bricked mills and the tarmac of the streets.

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ASPLEY

BILBOROUGH

WOLLATON

RADFORD

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SHERW

ST ANN’S

SNEINTON

MEADOWS

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CLIFTON

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15) Forest Recreation Ground:Home to the historical Goose Fair, a hugely important event in Nottingham’s history, the Forest Recreation Ground is a large open space offering many sport and play activities. Perfect on a sunny day, or a misty morning, The Forest offers the perfect setting for joggers, dog-walkers and youngsters. If you need some shade, just climb up the hill and relax under the trees.

16) Arboretum Park:Just a short distance from Nottingham Trent University’s city centre campus, the Arboretum is the perfect escape from the pressures of city life. A Green Flag Award Winner, and Nottingham’s oldest public park, the Arboretum is historic and beautifully maintained, with over 800 trees (some of which are from the original collection planted in the 19th century) and a large pond. With large open areas, shaded havens and flower gardens, the park is filled with happy locals on sunny days.

17) Victoria Park and St Mary's Rest Garden:With a rich history in an urbanised area, this park now offers the local community various sporting facilities such as football and basketball areas. All of which can be enjoyed alongside the wildflower meadows and lush open spaces, providing a perfect escape to locals.

9) Sycamore ParkSycamore Park is a great green space in the making. Currently part of Nottingham City Counsil’s plan to ‘Spring Clean’ the city, with the help of local volunteers.

10) Broxtowe Country Park:Broxtowe Country Park is a large green area with ancient meadows and woodlands. With 46 hectares of sports facilities, open green spaces and sports facilities, the park offers local housing estates amazing opportunities to experience nature in full force.

11) Tilbury Woods:Once an old quarry, Tilbury Woods is now an urban woodland, tucked away from the busy roads. With steep hills and wildflow-er meadows, the quarry is a great place to explore.

12) Strelley Recreation Ground:Offering grassland, woodland wildlife areas, grassland meadows, wildflower patches, and games areas, Strelley Recreation Ground is a Green Flag Award winning and tranquil park with a diverse range of landscapes to explore and enjoy.

13) King George V Playing Fields:Another Green Flag Award winner, the playing fields offer great play and sports facilities alongside wildflower areas and large open spaces. Recent investment has brought youngsters to the park, as they indulge in the many sporting activities on offer.

14) Melbourne Park: Lined by poplar trees, Melbourne Park is an attractively maintained green area with 2 main avenues, open spaces and football pitches to enjoy.

1) Cellar WoodsAn ancient coppiced woodland with a diverse range of habitats and species. With Oak-birch-bracken and ash-wych elm, acidic sandy soils and limestone, historically man-made ponds in the old clay pits, and a botanically rich grassland.

2) Bullwell Hall ParkAn ancient woodland, wildflower mead-ows, streams and fishing lakes, create a diverse habitat. Bulwell Hall offers a breath-taking nature reserve with plenty to explore, including nationally rare wild-flowers and wildlife tucked away in the grasslands.

3) Bullwell BogsBest known for its water park, Bulwell Bogs is located on the River Leen and of-fers beautiful flower beds lined with trees. A Green Flag Award winner, make a day trip and relax and picnic in this pictur-esque setting.

4) Southglade ParkOffering wide open spaces, woodland ar-eas, a new skate park and sandy banks, Southglade Park is a special wildlife site which perfectly supports certain plants and insects. Once a part of Sherwood For-est; this area of green also has excellent views of the city.

5) Sandy BanksAlso known as ‘The Hawthornes’, this fantastic nature reserve is known for its ‘lowland dry acid grassland’, or ‘sandy banks’ to you and I, that create a habitat for unique plants and insects. The site is also another Green Flag Award winner for Nottingham.

6) Vernon ParkAfter considerable investment in the re-cent years, Vernon Park now offers a new pavilion complete with a community room, and a sports field including a high quality football pitch and floodlit ten-nis courts. Anglers, walkers and wildlife watchers also come to the area to enjoy the large pond, fishing platforms and a boardwalk.

7) Woodthorpe Grange Park:A large green space with vast open areas, grasslands, woodland and wildflower meadows, a sunken garden, a tropical house, and a 19th century grade II listed manor house…incredible.

8) Coppice Park:With a history dating back to the mid-18th century, Coppice Park is one of Nottingham’s oldest parks. The area is over 5 hectares and mixes open space and play facilities with mature trees and wild areas.

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27) Glapton Wood/Whitegate Wood:Right in the heart of Clifton estate, Glapton Wood is another example of how trinkets of green can be found among the concrete; a lovely woodland and wildflower area, with plenty to explore and a fabulous view.

28) Highfield park:Located next to the Nottingham University Campus, Highfield Park is 121 acres of magnificent trees, exotic plantings and water features, and hosts onsite activities from boat hire to croquet. It also now includes a children’s play area and a variety of events at the Lakeside Arts Centre.

29) Wilford Claypit:Predictably, this area was created from a disused clay-pit, once used for over half a century of clay extraction. It now houses a variety of habitats, from woodland to calcareous grassland, and the marshland area has been designated as a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSI). Amongst the many species of invertebrate occurring on the site, there is a healthy population of dragonflies and damselflies, including the impressive blue and green emperor dragonfly.

30) Clifton Central Park:Clifton Central Park is known locally as the 'Flower Park' due to the mix of flower beds and wooded areas, which produce a very attractive green area. A collaboration between the council and local residents is currently seeking to improve the park, which will see the inclusion of an outside gym.

31) Holme Pit, Clifton Wood and Clifton Grove:Consisting of woodland, a fishing lake and a pond, these three complexes offer Clifton Village a perfect haven of wildlife. With official Local Nature Reserve status and SSI, there is plenty to explore and indulge in.

32) Breck’s Plantation:A small urban woodland in the Clifton estate, the plantation houses a variety of habitats and homes a huge range of woodland birds. The area is also split into two very different halves, so there is plenty to explore and discover.

18) King Edward Park:Possibly the most uncommon history for a green area, Kind Edward Park was the former site of a 19th century lunatic asylum. Not far from the city centre, the park offers 2.6 hectares of green, with an enjoyable play-park for youngsters, a newly improved pavilion and the recent inclusion of floodlit cricket and ball sports areas. 19) Colwick Woods:Just a mile from the city centre, Colwick Woods is an exciting and beautiful woodland to explore. With breath-taking views, a range of wildlife and historical features, you can spend a whole day roaming around the hidden gem. Lose yourself in wildlife among the woods and big open grasslands, just a short trip from the bustle.

20) Colwick Country Park: This large country park was originally formed from gravel workings, and now offers fishing, water sports and a variety of other leisure activities. With many of paths dedicated as Public Bridleway, the park is popular to horse-riders and cyclists, and the kids can stay entertained for houses in the excellent adventure centre. There is also a rich wildlife, from butterflies and dragonflies to migrating birds – such as wildfowl at winter time.

21) Martin’s Pond:Largely consisting of a wetland, which is surrounded by woodland, Martin’s Pond is an important contributor to the fertility and wildlife of Harrison’s Plantation. Nearly 4 hectares of varied wetland and woodland boasts eleven different habitats, such as salt water, swamp, and willow scrub, and is a haven for wildlife and visitors.

22) Harrison's Plantation:Harrison’s Plantation, together with Martin’s Pond, is an important wildlife reservoir to Nottingham. With an 18th century mixed, broad-leaved woodland brings sycamore with ash, wild cherry, oak, elder, hawthorn, and shades a ground flora of typically British

23) Lenton Recreation Ground:Mellors described this area as ‘the nearest approach to a village green we have’ in 1926. Today, with play parks, sports facilities and open spaces, the ground is a well-used community facility. A particular treasure is the Peace Garden created by local

24) Queen's Walk Recreation Ground:Queen's Walk Recreation Ground is a pleasant park with a mix of open space and wildlife features. Located in the Meadows housing estate, this green area is an incredible community resource. Offering a history of hosting sports teams throughout the centuries, the ground now boasts a play area, sensory garden, wildflower meadow and bowls pitch. This is the perfect place to relax and have fun, and was awarded the Green Flag Award in 2011/2012.

25) Wollaton Park and Gardens:Wollaton Park is one of Nottingham’s most famous and popular attractions. With five acres of spectacular gardens, the oldest cast iron glasshouse in Europe, a small-walled botanic garden, a huge area of wetland which is overlooked by an open grassland hill, woodland, herds of red and fallow deer roaming in their natural habitat, and of course, Wollaton Hall which featured in The Dark Knight Rise, Wollaton Park is without a doubt, a green treasure.

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FEATURE

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLYHERE AT TONGUE WE LOVE bOOKS, MAYbE NEARLY AS MUCH AS YOU DO. SO IF YOU HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE DROP THEM bY OUR WEbSITE ANYTIME. ALSO KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR THE UPCOMING GUEST REVIEWS.

It is no secret that book to film adaptations are on the rise. Every year a new book is transformed into a live action moving picture. It is often hard to let go of the world that your imagination created for the book, the way the characters look and the way that certain moments make you feel. If they are done badly in the film it’s hard to ignore it. So many times I’ve left the cinema feeling disappointed by what I thought would be a really good adaptation. For this reason here is a rundown of the good, the bad, and the ugly.

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SCORE D A SOLID 7.3/10SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

THE ROADThe Good

The Road is an American novel that revives an on-going anxiety of nuclear war and mankind’s ultimate destruction. The book follows a man and his son who remain unnamed as they travel the lonely road with no real destination in mind only their own safety. The Road not only suggests that man will be responsible for not only its own destruction but the destruction of

the world that we have built whilst trees survive regardless.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

First Published: 2006

Film Adaptation: 2009

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A JUST WATCHAbLE 5.8/10SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

THE TIME MACHINE bY H.G. WELLSThe Bad

The Time Machine is a novel with ideas about the destruction of the world far beyond the era in which it was written. In the future the animals are all extinct except for human’s which have evolved into two very different species, the Eloi (a race of childlike creatures, feeble and yet described as beautiful) and the Morlocks (brutish, nocturnal, ape-like creatures that only come to the surface at night.) The Time Traveller discovers in his time amongst the Eloi that they are in fact being kept to a life of comfort and happiness, herded like cattle for the Morlocks to later eat. He is

incredibly disturbed by this notion that humanity has come to a point where there is no emotion tied to the consumption of human flesh. The novel is incredibly intelligent. The film, however, is not. By giving the mysterious Time Traveller an unnecessary back story the film removes the intellectual aspect of the story. It gives him a reason other than simple curiosity to build the time machine and dwells too much on the past. Creating a lover amongst the Eloi also ruins much of what Wells had tried to create. Weena, whose name is changed in the film to Marni, is treated in the book like a pet or a companion for the Time Traveller until he dies and not a love interest as his interest is purely in the knowledge. The worst deviation is the creation of what we’ll call

the ‘master Morlock’ an over intelligent and telepathic being that can control the minds and actions of the other Morlocks’. The idea is ridiculous and not done well with. The film would have benefited from the same story telling as the book, having the Time Traveller discover things in that world slowly rather than all at once with the characters just blatantly telling him the things that they kept secret from him in the book. Even the fact that Weena speaks English in the film is a little irritating. The film on its own is enjoyable enough it were not tied to the classic novel that has been celebrated for over a hundred years.

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AN OVERLY KIND 5.7/10SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTHThe Ugly

When Jules Verne wrote ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’ I doubt very much he envisioned his masterpiece to be recreated for the big screen with 3D gimmicks. The entire film derives completely from the plot and characters of the novel, like the Time Machine there is very little correlation between the two. Rather than allowing itself to be called an adaptation it should sever ties completely from the

novel. There is no real similarity at all between them so if you are a fan of Journey to the centre of the Earth by Jules Verne then you probably won’t like this film

Leanne CartwrightColumnist

Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne

First Published: 1864

Film Adaptation: 2008

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WHAT ABOUTA CREATIVE TITLE

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CREATIVE SUbMISSIONSSECTION FOUR

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shoreThere is a society where none intrudes,by the deep sea and music in its roar:I love not man the less, but nature more.”-Lord byron

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THOSE DAYS IN PARADISE The first thing I did every morning as I woke up without fail was to look at the sky and just marvel at that distant explosion of light and colour. I did for this was my only consolation living in a monochro-matic age, being forced to eat the dust of those ghastly shades of grey. But it wasn’t always like this. No it wasn’t! But each time I open my mouth and each time that grey serpent in it twists and turns and conjures up syllables, all those near me cry “Mad man! You old fool that is only in the sky and not on earth” they say “Colours bah! The invention of poets.” they mock.

It all began when it began and I don’t know when. They invented this and they invented that and in the end it all went hopelessly wrong. I was still in the university, skillful with words and a wonderful observer of things around me when I began my tryst with poetry. And so one day, overcome with joy and longing for my senses to be overwhelmed by those exuberant doses of green the country side was to offer, I got on a bus that was to take me there. It rained not death, not disease but plain salty water back then and I knew seated besides the window that everything was fine.

“Tickets…tickets” the conductor chanted

“One ticket…last stop…the…”

“Tickets…tickets” he continued as if in a trance and just walked away as if I were a mere ghost.

I was a bit disturbed by his gesture but I decided to remain in my seat and take in the sights. There were not many people on the road that day. No not even one I recall. The scenery kept changing as expect-ed to my delight. I could now see the university campus fade away, its clock tower no longer ticking in the back of my mind. Then came; the empty bazaars with oranges, mangoes, grapes, pineapples and peaches all neatly piled up in stacks tempting the busy flies and the passers by with their bright merry colours. Buildings crowded my vision for sometime and then as the wheels of time and space progressed, grey turned green. We were now at the outskirts of the city, apart from a few bill boards nothing remained. In the distance one could see just an array of trees all green and standing tall in a perpetual act of contem-plation.

“It’s good to be in your company” I whispered and they answered in silence as a smile broke loose on my face.

I turned around to see where the conductor was so that I could pay him my fare and get out of that moving capsule as soon as possible. I got up from my seat and motioned towards the rear end of the bus. He was seated there, that giant figure of his was quite distinguishable. As I reached a few seats away from him I noticed that he was asleep.

“Dreamer he is” I said to myself “May be a poet like me who got trapped in this job thanks to his circumstances”

“Excuse me” I blurted out like an idiot in an attempt to wake him up. “I would like to get down here. Hello?”

He mumbled something and continued in a peaceful state of slumber and to my surprise I noticed something utterly strange. They were all asleep! Even the driver rested his head on the steering wheel and let the bus take its own course. Overcome with a surreal sense of horror I cried out in vain, “Get up! Get up all of you! Can’t you see I’ve missed my stop? I need to get down now. Now! Get up!” I shook the driver with all my strength and even stomped on the floor to make my presence known. “Get up!” I cried once again

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“Do anyone of you care where we are heading? The road that we are now traveling looks fucking deadly. It’s dangerous you fools to sleep like this and let all this happen. For the love of God we got to stop…stop this bus…stop this…all this…” Saying this I nearly broke into tears but none of them even moved a muscle. They were all oblivi-ous to the things around them. I was unfortunate to be the only one awake. Now as I sat once again in my favorite window seat I noticed how quickly anything close to what can be defined as serene disappeared. It all faded away. Those tall green trees that greeted me earlier lay crumbled on the ground still in deep contemplation. Buildings that looked cruelly down came into the picture once again turning it grey once again. It began to rain again, this time however it poured not those innocent droplets of water but death, disease and destruction. It was all gone now, even the buildings were dead.

The bus eventually came to a halt right where I boarded it. Everyone was now awake and was in a hurry. I couldn’t move now, it was a world unfit for men and women-a giant ball of trash and terror it seemed to be.

“Hey you! I need to get out. Stop blocking the way” a voice roared.

***

Now I realize how valuable that trip which did not take place was. I saw something that the rest failed to see. I saw how we all turned grey. And so, when people say that those beautiful colours existed only in the heavens, I say to them in gentle whispers “We were once the inhabitants of heaven…but the descendants of death our children will be…” and my voice gently fades away in that symphony of sadness.

JUDE LOPEZ

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TO WAKE UP TO He was back from Yugoslavia, looking for work, it wasn’t easy to find. Desperate, he responded to an ad for work in a woman’s shelter. He imagined they wouldn’t hire a male, got an interview with the director, a woman about twenty years his junior, she had him sit down, as she read his resume. Prior to his two years in Belgrade, he had worked an alcohol and drug detox in the same town. The woman looked up. It was too bad about Teddy. He looked at her. Teddy? Teddy at the detox. What about him? Oh, you didn’t know? Know what? Oh, my, I’m sorry, Teddy did himself. Teddy Lang? Yep, did himself, tried to eat the 9 millimetre, one of those ugly, clunky Rugers, so tough to chew. Are you sure? Teddy Lang from Phoenix House? Well, I went to the funeral, so I guess I am. Jesus, I was at his annual 4th of July ‘blow-up’ party, just a few months ago, he’d quit the detox to get a degree in nursing, to become a pharmaceutical nurse. This is hard to believe, things seemed a little odd at the party, he seemed a little distant, and the wife wasn’t there. I thought maybe that was it, a mar-ital problem of some sort, but I never thought. . . Yea, well it seems he fell off, got dirty he, after they got married, she maybe first, he had to leave the detox. Wow! he must have had fifteen or twenty years clean and sober, wow! Yea, well there’s a reason collective wisdom says one shouldn’t mess with their new ly-clean court mandated volunteers, I suppose. I was in Belgrade when they got married, sent them a pair of papier-mâché macaw parrots as sort of a jokey wedding present. . . . Well, I guess they’ve finished talking at each other now. Wow, bang! Just like that. . . He didn’t know who got the job, but it wasn’t him.   He remembered he went up from the parking lot, to the back door, when he was going to inter-view about five or six years before, at Phoenix house, there was a crack-pipe sitting at the top of the stairs by the back door. He knew the director, Reggie Zee, from when he drove the boozer-cruiser, when they both worked the city. How Reggie would come to the front door of the Army Street detox to cull his ad-missions, anybody with shit coming out the bottom of his pants leg, wet or dry, had to go someplace else, simple as that.  He got a job at a winter homeless shelter out on an old air force landing field, where you could watch the local deer bed down in the grass around day-light, if your eyes were open. A quick trip from the city on the big Moto Guzzi he brought back from his time in Belgrade. The clients an interesting mix, out of work geeks, National Park Rangers, a Vietnam-Vet crack-addict gun-ship side-bay gunner, hard-core street people not wanting to winter without heat, illegal-immigrant hustlers selling their products in the johns, life-as-banquet, as what you eat.. And the staff, pretty much from boss on down, all showing perfectly syn-chronized selective vision, like a deaf man at a Chinese New Year’s celebration with his hearing-aid shut off. When in Vegas, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, and what you do know, hold close.  Maybe he’d sell the Guzzi, and head back to Oregon where things were a little more difficult, a lit-tle more genuine. Weigh cranberries, help paint a junior high school, buy an old Air-Stream from a wom-an with three-hundred cats, or work a psych hospital as a janitor, all seemed preferable to city light, city magic, endless celluloid summers. Maybe he’d pick apples from one of those ladders that always made him think of Robert Frost, follow the seasons, smell the air. He wanted something real, compared to what was staring him in the face, compared to lies. Something to put his hand to. Something good he hold as truth, even if it hurt. Something to wake up to.

                                                                                  

Greek Vacation 

     Jennifer a San Francisco friend warned him: You will not like those people, and didn’t mean Serbs, Cro-ations, or Slovenes. She meant the Dips and the Double-dippers, retired Bird- Colonels, going back through the line for a second helping of apple pie before others had even sat down or lifted a fork, and irked all notions of temperance in his mind. 

2929

He was out of Belgrade, out of the embassy, washed inside and out by centuries of river sediment from the Danube, the Sava, construction, re-construction dust, born of jack-hammers sounding through brick walls, separated by densely packed straw insulation, still holding grime churned-up in battles from one-hundred and fifteen previous wars, forty-four of which razed the entire city to the ground, this, mixed with winters of coal-dust, risen like the vast, broken dead, the trailing seeping out, into the open air, set-tling-out on desk-tops, carpet, chrome-handled glass doors, bathroom fixtures, the over-stuffed chairs, the ambassador’s cigar box, even the code-room, with its heavy steel bank-vault-door, as well as the more private areas of both body and mind, dusting the skin grey, scrubbing one’s teeth. A pallor-heeding time, mocking his cleaning tasks, like a clock of history, making it more difficult than he had imagined to per-form, as one of the resident cleaners of place.    The JAT jet, climbing over the Danube, headed for Greece. Their idea of service seemed to be, let everyone smoke. It smelled like thousands of dead smokers were interned in seats, decks, overhead, even in the re-cycled air, not counting the hundred or so live cigarettes of fellow travellers. He wondered what the reason was for universal attraction to cigarette smoking. And what had made him come-up with the idea, that the Gardach boy, Billie, next door, should steal some cigarettes from his mother’s purse, so he and Billie could hide in the corn-patch, and light-up. Afterward he made the mistake of telling his older sister, Miss Perfect, about his fondness for tobacco, and she, without hesitation, told his mother, who he then had to lie to. So he was forced to move from corn-patch to an unused wing of the chicken shed. A couple of days later, when the coast was clear, he and Billie christened it with some more Kool’s from Billie’s mom, stubbing out the butts on the dirt floor upon entering another realm of the adult world.  An hour or so later, day-dreaming upstairs in the house, he heard a siren, sounding very much like a fire engine, looked out a rear window at plumbs of grey smoke rising from the chicken shed. He ran downstairs, out to the shed, filled an empty lard bucket with water, drenching a smoking and smouldering dirt floor. The dirt floor turned out to be dried manure laced with straw that could catch fire if one looked at it sideways or straight on. By the time firemen jumped off the truck, he was up-stairs hiding under his bed. A fireman told his mom it looked like some kids may have been playing with matches, or may-be smoking and the dried manure started smouldering and a neighbour in back noticed the smoke.  He couldn’t remember smoking again until he was in basic training in the army, where it seemed all the trainees smoked one brand or another. Sir Walter Raleigh went to Chesterfield on a Camel, struck Old Gold and called it a Lucky Strike, as they used to say. He started smoking Camels the first week of basic training. His sister had been such a snitch. He’d finally quit after he’d been sober a couple of years, when he started running laps around the polo field in Golden Gate Park, and some lady said she didn’t think he could quit even if he wanted to. Well, he didn’t want to, but quit anyway, just to show her.  He couldn’t remember what happened to the corn-patch when his parents cut-up the acre, most likely part of someone’s lawn now. They sold off the back half of the land, then built a ranch-style house on each side of their house on the front half. Everything was torn apart, the chicken-shed, the open-faced corral, the garage with the long sliding ware-house door, the flag pole, dad’s hand-built brick incinerator, all the fruit trees, sour-pie cherry, apricot, peach, and fig, the long rows of boysenberries, straw-berry patch, asparagine, the huge old black walnut shading the left side of the lathe house, surrounded by a circle-bed of ivy, held back from the lawn by more of dad’s brick-work, the brick barbeque with the rec-tangular wind-up iron grill right in front of the lathe house, where all his parents friends,  mom’s brother and family from town,  out for a fourth of July feast with barbequed ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, a big pot of fresh corn-on-the-cob, water melon,  hand-cranked lemon sherbet for dessert. When darkness came on he’d just roll over on his back on the lawn, burp like a baby,  watching   fireworks from all around, shoot-ing-up like pop-corn escaping from under the lid of a hot skillet, and into a bed of stars.  But then it all disappeared, almost over-night. The chickens, the chicken farms, rabbits, crows, horses, goats, pigs, orange groves, walnut orchards, alfalfa fields, all turned into houses like some-body had waved a magic wand. He remembered saying to his dad when they would drive by the fields marked off with surveyors stakes Dad I can see where the garages go, when do they mark off the houses?” and his dad saying Son those aren’t stakes for garages, they’re for the houses, there are no garages, cars will be parked in car ports next to the houses, at the end of the drive-way.  And it just wasn’t happening in one town, but all over the valley, in no time flat, until there was no land left bigger than a postage stamp. They even put cement down where the LA River used to be, then cut

3030

a narrow cement lined trench in the centre of it for water. No more little old black-man with his rectan-gles of wire-mesh, baited with wired on bacon rhines, and a tall wire-loop sticking out over the water with a hank of bright coloured cloth tied to the top, to mark it as his trap, his crawdads. No more bull-frogs, mud-hens, guinea hens, or coot. All gone boom, just like that. And dad said you can’t stop progress son, it’s like a huge engine starving for fuel, and it will gobble-up everything in sight and just keep moving, almost like a wild thing, a fire storm. Still, he couldn’t understand why they had to build all those houses, so his dad said; they had to, for the new workers coming from all over, for the new industries sprouting-up like weeds. The aircraft industry and the defence contractors like Lockheed, Douglas Aircraft, North American, Hughes Aircraft, Rocketdyn, the big defence companies. Jesus, didn’t we win the war, didn’t we have the atom bomb?  He was taking the dinner scraps and left-overs out to Rosie, the Berkshire gelt, in the open faced corral again, listening for her low excited dinner-is-coming grunting and squealing routine, when he dozed-off. He awoke just after the jets wheels screeched contact with the tarmac, and just a short distance from the beginning of Logos, the Parthenon, and Gyro stalls hung with tasty spring lamb, and pom-fritz.   He liked Athens. Raw energy, motorcycles roaring through traffic circles, street kiosks with west-ern magazines, museums, small affordable hotels,  restaurants, movie houses, a lesson for the day, even the hostility of a bank clerk when he went to change Yankee dollars into drachmas was somehow refreshing. He wanted to tell the teller he understood, he agreed, but was afraid she wouldn’t believe him.  The bag containing most of his clothes was not there when he de-planed, and he remembered the surly baggage clerk in Belgrade with his hand out for ‘cigarette money’, who probably thought all Ameri-cans were equally rich, and, compared to his wage, he would be probably correct, although even he must have known some were more equal than others, but perhaps he just didn’t care.  So he walked the streets of Athens with purpose, looking for something to wear that didn’t make him look too much like a tourist, a change of clothes, found a shop selling work clothes,  bought an inexpensive fisherman’s sweater, and later a pair of British hob-nail boots at a Surplus store. He found a restaurant, the Neon Cafe, close to his room in a small bathroom-down-the-hall hotel, that was well laid-out with various stations for entrees, salads, desserts, drinks, etc., clean and bright, frequented by many young people, and inexpensive enough for students on a budget.  After a few days of Athens capacity for ingesting the hustle of another city had worn thin and he decided to fly out to one of the islands to see if it was actually in eye-sight of Turkey.  It was, and although covered with enough building to house thousands of tourists, the season was over, and no one was there except for a few year-round inhabitants. It looked like the perfect place for a good rest. He finally found a room, the only pension open on that side of the island, then a small clothing shop that sold American jeans at Greek prices.  He explored more and found a Deli stuffed with tasty cheeses and olives, salted anchovies, pita breads, Turkish coffees, Greek pastries. Later, close to the pier, fishing boat docks, he stumbled onto an open coffee house, small enough to be operated by one man. He had an espresso, the middle-aged pro-prietor, a friendly man, came from Athens one year on business and just decided to stay. He had been an engineer for many years, but now sold coffee, rented beach chairs to tourists. After a day or so of just relaxing, reading, eating lunch from the Deli on the fishing pier, he stopped in again for a coffee, and the ex-engineer told him there was one American woman on the island who he must meet. He didn’t want to appear ungrateful to the man but he couldn’t help asking: ‘Why?’ His host exclaimed ‘Don’t you like women, or is it because she is an American?’ So he said ‘OK, tell me about her.’ The woman had come to the island about fifteen years ago, from Los Angeles, in California, and obviously made quite a bit of money in her business ventures, as she immediately selected one of the young men who serviced some of the tourists as her lover, then purchased land, built a large house, with view, half-way down a hill, over-looking the Aegean. Then after about thirteen or fourteen years her lover left her for a younger Greek woman, and the town council cited her for building out of code, as the large house obstructed the view of houses above it, and the council declared the top floors of the house would have to be removed. The poor rich woman had been in an uproar ever since, and had instructed the proprietor to inform her immediately of any American landed on the island. He couldn’t help laughing and blurted out:

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‘Did this woman from Los Angeles ever mention where her business was located?’  The proprietor, looking a little baffled, thought, as a matter of fact she did mention, even bragged, that her property de-velopment company was the biggest and most successful company in the entire valley. Could it have been the San Fernando Valley?  The engineer turned to him and said ‘Yes, he believed it was, the San Fernando Valley.’  He laughed, and then laughed some more. It was the best vacation, he’d ever had. 

DONALD HUTTON

3232

A FAILURE IN JUDGEMENT ‘Deforestation will not automatically stop from our not accepting advertisement brochures in our mail. However at least it will make us less responsible for such cutting down of trees, for scrap paper, after placing this no-advertisements sign onto the mailbox.’ murmured Enid, after rubbing the tip of her glue stick against the back of that sign mentioned. When gazing up from a brochure from a hardware store, Theodore had shrugged and said, ‘Stop-ping advertisement brochures from being stuffed into our mail won’t bring the trees back to life, Enid. I hope you know that.’ To that Enid had sternly gazed at Theodore and snapped ‘I never said that it did, Theo. All that I said was that by not accepting advertisements that have been mailed to us, we are reducing the degree of responsibility that we will have for the thriving of an exploitative industry that cuts down trees to make pointless things like those brochures. Trees serve a much too higher purpose in nature than to be turned into tasteless brochures like the one that you are holding. They are to look visually appealing, and to give habitats to little animals, or to give fresh air to all living creatures of the world, and not to be turned into scraps of paper!’ cried Enid, when pointing at Theodore’s brochure. Theodore had shaken his head and had replied, ‘In defence of those brochures, I must say that, while you are busy saving the environment, I am busy saving money. You see, Enid, such advertisements are not pointless, but they tell us what products are sold more cheaply, so that we consumers may know exactly how to get the best bargains. As a result, we pay less money for products and get to save money; thanks to such valuable advertising that gets mailed to us, for free.’ Whilst sceptically tilting her head, Enid replied, ‘You need not thank the advertising for letting you know what products are sold more cheaply than usual, Theo. The supermarket is not some sort of charity. Those shops gain money from the fact that customers like you, foolishly see that a product is cheaper than normal, buy three times as much of it and therefore spend more money than intended on it, and paradox-ically call that saving money. So, it is really the supermarkets that make money from such advertising at our expense. Trees are their greatest victims. We just lose money from those so called “price reductions”. Trees, however, lose their lives. They’ll never get it back.’ To that, Theodore laughed and replied, ‘You do not seem to feel as guilty about all of the plant life that you kill through your strict vegetarian diet, whereas when I told you about my plan to spare plant life by only eating meat, you completely freaked out.’ Enid looked shocked and disgusted, ‘It is hardly my fault that our bodies will stop functioning if we do not at least eat a nutritious meal. Besides animals suffer more from being butchered than plants, since animals are more conscience of the harm that is being done to them.’ Theodore tore up the brochure he was reading and said, ‘Fine then. Let’s not accept advertise-ments, spend less money on bargains that we will know less about, and increase the risk of acquiring debts, poverty and maybe becoming destitute. At least the environment does not suffer as a result of our saving money, right Enid?’ Then Enid banged her fist onto the table ‘I did not say that we should stop being thrifty, Theo. Don’t put words in my mouth. In fact if you had listened to what I said, you would know that I remarked that we could reduce the tendency to overspend by not chasing after so many bargains that we end up spending more money than originally intended, instead of only spending money on what we really need. Besides, Europe is in a recession or a financial crisis, but we can best overcome it by spending money sen-sibly and being more eco-friendly.’

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He rolled his eyes as Enid collected the pieces of paper that he had torn and thrown onto the table, Theodore replied, ‘Let us not even get started on talking about recessions, Enid. The whole of Europe claims to be in a financial crisis, though many countries, on the continent, can afford to keep distributing newspapers that are free of charge. The news agencies that talk of recessions do not strike me as very reliable, if you ask me, since they didn’t need to charge any money for the news that they provided about Europe’s apparent financial hardship.’

Enid cried, ‘All of those news articles on old Greek people who have lost their pension, as a result of the financial crisis cannot be a total lie.’ Theodore sighed, “I’m sure that such horrible stories are true, but to refuse to accept advertise-ments in the mail won’t change anything about that.” Enid angrily tossed the torn pieces of paper into the air, and headed for the door, then turned around, looked at Theodore and replied, ‘The problem with you is that you try to avoid change at all costs! Even when there is so much evidence that the environment and our economy is deteriorating, and the world is quickly changing, you deny that those problems really exist, in order to justify carrying on living the way that you always did. If you acknowledged that those problems exist, you would know that it is important to use money and environmental resources more sparingly.’ Then Theodore jumped up and shouted, “Maybe I’m simply tired of changing my lifestyle and my point of view every time you say that some book or some news article or some dashing television present-er says that we should do so. You have always taken them at face value, and were always sure that I am in the wrong. I want to live the way my own judgment says that I should and to trust that judgment of mine as well.” Enid looked hurt, ‘Well at the moment I am questioning my judgment when I agreed to marry you, because you don’t care about what is happening in the world and how we could help make it better.’ Then, after Enid had stormed out of the living room, Theodore shouted to her, saying “Look I said that it is fine if we do not accept advertisements in our mail. So, WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?”

ERIC MWATHIhttp://ericmwathispoetry.webs.com/

3434

The Skyhas been shot...

The Ozone is hit...

Numerous holesare found in the Ozone...

The Mother Nature isseriously injured...

Evidences of bullets were found scatteredon Earth in many Houses,Offices,Shopping malls,Theatres...

SAM RAPTHFORENSIC REPORT

I am wondering If am loosing my vision...

The Earth looked greenAs if clean shaven...

Now I don’t see greens,I only see fumes...

In my work hours in shift,I wonder if I am waiting for its poles to shift...

Before that could happenI wish I lose my vision….

The giant Komatsualways deploysfat in the country’smany veins... And, None of the newspapersshow any statistic onsuch rape attempts onthe mother nature....

SAM RAPTHFROM THE SATELLITE

SAM RAPTHTHE MISGUIDANCE

3535

Crisp white frost on a cold spring morning.I’m outside smoking and I’m still yawning. The crocuses are turning their heads to the sun. The days are getting warmer, almost time for outdoor fun.

At the coast the wind is bracing, still feels like winter there. The waves are crashing in on the rocks laid bare. The wind whips up the sand that stings your face.Yet the coastline remains the most beautiful place. Millions of years this planets been revolvingHumanities effect on the place is frankly revolting. Acres of rainforest cleared a day at a time.Imagine the world without us…sublime?

Birdsong in the morning wakes you before you’re due. Trees rustling in the wind sound like the ocean fresh and new. A planet bursting with diversity always new things to see.But please go about it carefully it’s more delicate than it may seem.

Mountains and valleys, glaciers and craters.This world is amazing, to destroy it outrageous.But destroy it we do with wars and stupidity.Over harvesting the world for the greed of humanity.

So intent are we on this planets destruction.Atom bombs, nuclear warheads and deforestation – human malfunction. We need to clean our act up if we’re to keep this world turning. Life is a lesson – look at nature and get learning.

ELOISE CARTWRIGHTBEAUTIFUL WORLD

3636

Across the singing bridge of Memphis, bouncing around like jar fliesin the cab of a ’71 Ford, my relapsedprincess leaned her head against the window and tracked her bloodhound days back

to the end of summer when she wore a swamp rose in her hairand we splashed butt naked in Wolf River, our bellies full of freak water. Pussy willows splitting on the branch, the dust of cattails yellow on skin pricked by the confluenceof a private muddy flood.

She said that was when, skipping stones against the cool dark waterwhere the catfish were in bloom, she knew that she didn’t knowwhat anything was about.

DAWSON STEEbERBLACK GUM

Earth offers usVery many delights;Visual treats of Tasty fruitsAndScented flowers Of one’s own Well-watered, Well-soiled, Well-sunned plants;On a peek preview,A mountainTo climb the ladder of life;A seaTo swim across the turbulence;A land To move towards success;Most of all,Earth renders her lapDuring times of respite!

Well-learned!Feeting and Wheeling on the solid ground,Winging out to the vacant space,Wading through the bottomless sea,None can pluck the stars to ownOr cut the diamonds for wear!Mediocre workYieldsMediocre results!Provides EarthSuch valuable lessons!

SUJAYA VENKATESHEARTH

Scarred permanently, the earth encumbered moans.

Trust, deceptive, slithered deep into vulnerability,

Unlocking the strength of passion;

To reach and find, crouched below a frightened bud.

Wailing for the skies above to hear, it is hurting.

Concealed and protected, it lay, presumptuous in bliss.

Until the naked sky lifted the blanket from beneath;

Exposing the untamed innocence to the vicious breeze.

O treachery! I had pledged blindly to you infidel sky.

I’m scarred! This hollow form can never be occupied.

UMM-E-AIMAN VEJLANISCARRED

3737

Course now, the light upon the tender curve;see now the shade I know she does not birth.She holds the light, bears not the dark,for shadow brings an absence of the lark.

I see the stroke, the touch, the barely hastened coil;the mark, the nod, the ev’nsong of my forgiving foil.

But do I heed,or do I need to take just what I can?Because she bears me, then she dares me... be better than I am.

She feeds me, then she needs meto tend her when she ails.She holds me, then she moulds meinto one who should not fail.

It’s true, she dies,while most deny,and beg tofollow form.

Should I be thrilledthat I have killedthe rarestlife ofall?

ADRIAN LEACHMANEATING THE APPLE

Thought, lost in me I satBeing the thin lineDividing the unending Playground of sky blueabove.

And

The sea of bladed green under my size nine leather sandals.

I peered downNot upBlades of greenstood tallstrong and smiled

And it made senseIn it the earth I sawHow trampled yet unbrokenThe last colony of manStill smilingStrong and tall.

Still forgivingStrong and strong and strong!

JUDE LOPEZTHE LAST CO,LONY

38 38

We stand in the sun. We feel the burn. Nobody says anything. Nobody cares. Minding other people’s business is no longer cool. Not like it ever was –but nobody does it anymore anyway.

Who needs leaders when all you have to do is stand in the sun? Do trees have leaders? Well, it’s not as simple as that. People still have to take their enzyme vitamins. So the bossy people try to control the production & distribution. We let them. Who the hell cares?

All we have to do is flash an ID. It doesn’t cost anything. It doesn’t matter who controls the supply.

Clouds were good company

but forests were her first

love. There was no need to

distinguish one from the next.

The black had long been

merged with the rain, and the

hardwood had no memory

of original pith. Recently

she admitted to no longer

knowing who was virgin and

who second growth. They

left off discriminating among

themselves when they dis-

covered they were several

species of grass, believing,

as conifers, they evolved from

a single sprig of rosemary.

Many are the needles who

won’t be content until safely

on the ground, away from

the wings and wind gusts that

set their worlds aflutter.

WE WAKE UP

IMPENETRABLE FOG BANK

GERALD YELLE

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You see the weirdest people. Some still wear their hair. Don’t they know hair went out years ago? And you should see their teeth. I’m always afraid someone is going to bite. There were rumors about cannibals but only true believers believed them.

Plateau dwellers were behind all the trouble. They lived on higher ground and thought that made them taller. What it made them was oxygen deprived. Their houses had coke bottle windows to keep out the wind and the dust that blew in with it. Their eyes were red from grit. They were jealous and spread lies –and not just about the canyon people.

The canyon people are not very tall. But they have all that hair, and those teeth.

WHEN YOU GO TO THE CANYON

POEM LIKE A PALIMPSEST

GERALD YELLE

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is the hypertension of the city,a horizon choked with overpassesand buildings and lines of carsgoing nowhere and everywhere.

The white knuckle static of ego rubbing ego,bumper riding bumper,is a smog-rich soil nurturing the roots of ragepounded against steering wheels.

The air tastes of concrete and sun-warmed apathy, a stereo drowning out the sighsof a thousand engines,right ankles tiring from the repetition.

These hours crawl past into daysthat could have been spent watching sweat gather on the outside of a glass,

could have been, could have beenanything but waiting for a collision,anything but being one of the faceless,one of the blood cells mobbing the world’s aorta like it’s an emergency exit and the universe is a deep breaththat can’t be caught,having a heart attackwhile sitting still.

across ocean wavesinto liquid light confettiaround my wife’s feet,there’s a celebration of simplicity, a rippling assurance in the whispersof water against sand that says,“this is all there is, accept it.”

The melted crystal sea sparklesaround us, every winking reflectiona camera flash from another plane,a star exploding in a parallel universe,a prismatic exchange between the darkest of blues and the lightestof whites, erupting like two dimensionalfireworks across a plate glass window,that begs to be lifted up into the heavens,

so I gather some of the sea into my palms,where the stillness kills the light, and throw it into the air, each dropletbecoming a bead of fire filled with unquenchable freedomagainst the backdrop of clouds and blue,for just an instant soaring,a thousand diamonds torn from the rings on mother nature’s hands,then falling back to the blanketof endless kisses washing to the shore,waiting to be turned into rain.

JAY SIZEMORE

TRAFFIC

THE WAY THE SUNLIGHT BREAKS

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First, there were the gaseous entities,the great nebular specters hung like vaporized sheets in the windless black breeze of space.Hydrogen and helium, dust and the ghosts of starsthat gravity condensed into a galaxyand then a universe, spinningplanets forming like a cluster of cells under a microscope.The vacuous silence greeted creationwithout a choir of voices,without a “let there be light,”if anything, God was the light, the catalystthat set existence ablaze,the progenitor of fire and dirt,the sperm donor of time,the celestial waters from which everything arose and grew souls.

But before thumbs and tools,the night belonged to the animalsand Earth’s oldest known living things,the slow-growing bristle cones.Now, in California, they’ve started cutting down the ancient forests,the redwoods, the sequoias,making way for the path of progress.I’m reminded of how viruses attack cells.How the protein coated headattaches with spindly spider legsand injects its DNA into the host,how a four-lane highwaycuts through a wildernessand opens a bleeding woundthat coagulates with a population boom,an infection that grows and growslike a universe or a cancer.We’ve captured light, bent it to our will like thin, wirefilaments and shown it intothe dark places of the world,chasing out the shadows and replicating our DNA in the fluorescent glow of unstoppable change, the cytoplasm of timefrom which we sprungand which we now feed,like worms unable to seethe other side of the apple.

THE EVOLUTION OF PROGRESS

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Lately I’ve been thinkingin terms of status updates and tweets,truncating my thoughts into sound byte lengths,catch phrases or humorous quotes,140 characters or less or maybe moreif I’m feeling facebook loyal.

Listening to songs, certain lyrics stand outlike they never have before, like they belongin a thought balloon attached to my skull, or just tattooed on my digital self,my subliminal wall of graffiti and id,the universe where everything orbits me,and every word feels born from my mind.

The way I look at the world has changed,I feel like I can see so much more,a galaxy of answers right at my fingertips,nothing a mystery anymore thanks to the newest deity to start with a “G,”

my imagination is much more freewithout the weight of my memorytethering this zeppelin of cerebral meto the physical gravity of reality,

I can fit the horizon into a four inch screen,I can take pictures of the sunsetand tag it so it belongs to me,I can cut together a video and upload it for the viral feed,

I can fit an entire life into my palmas long as there are some bars of 3Gfor my new 32 gigabyte phoneand its display in AMOLED HD,but as for the Grand Canyon,no, I’ve never been there,but I might like to go,if they have wifi.

TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENT

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I watched butterflies panic the day autumn arrivedunannounced, and with suitcasein tow, pockets turned inside out,their frantic and fragile wingsa chaotic flutter of S.O.S. signals,flying blind into interstate trafficwhere moths go to commit suiciderather than become food for birds.Two Monarchs tumbled across my windshield and careened into the cyclonic undertow of blue skyand gray speckled road before being sucked into the grill of the next Toyota Prius or Honda Civic hybrid that was inventedwith the intention of helping preservethe environment of these living things it gets stuck between its teethlike kernels of corn that might afflicta movie watcher.

The leaves’ tips are turning red,as if they stabbed the world while it wasn’t looking,and all the hot air got sucked out through the holes,making the birds confused at first,then steadfast with concentrationthat some might mistake for an instinct of survival as they abandon their homes for a crude sense of directionand become specks of blackagainst the sheet wrapped around the world made from the irises of infantswho we tell not to stare at the sun,

but we look up, and see them flying,their uniform destination as obviousas the assumption that having lifeis “greater than” the alternative at the end of an equation where “less than” means zero,and we put on our jackets,set our minds to the tedious taskof sharpening knives for the carving of pumpkins, we set our clocksto fall back an hour so we seemto live a bit longer each day,and we sleep on piles of leaves,knowing that some day,we will wake up in the fire.

FIRST DAY OF FALL

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I woke up at dawnAnd watched the sun Rise up and engulf My entire bodyLike a warm blanket.I cried For all of those sleeping, As I experienced This new beginning.

Walking three hundred acres,To get there before you woke up.

Barbed wire fence stood in my way.I tried everything.

Tired and alone;I sat in the dust, out of options.

Cross-legged I began to speak to you.Later, you would tell me,“Brother I heard you this morningbut you didn’t give me time to answer.”

In the recesses of my memory; There are many images and smells that remind meOf freedom: the smell of a roaring camp fire, roasting hot dogs.Putting up a tent, and waking up with the morning sun.

Up at first light;Soon everyone else will be up.I can’t wait to hear the crackling of bacon and eggs.

MIKIEL GHELIEHNEW MEXICO MOURNING

MIKIEL GHELIEHCAMPING

Skirting the edge of an asphalt ocean Where the waves grow thick with illusionAnd currents of shadow flow and ink.A single word for fire; apexed.Azure coughing, the heat, the sphere.

The gloaming creeps amidst a wasting pres-ent, Devouring it in a raw, amoebic shudder.The sky rusts; the sun slips its mooringsAnd falls into the sea-An audible hiss

Staring. Deep space vertigo,-Cochlear death rattles.Cricket orchestras for cosmic movement;Waves filing intoNose-bleed seats.

The east hums with an electric tomorrow,While cumulus vapours burn amaranth,And tatter where towers riseTo scratch grand altitudes,And piss sulphur.

JOHN MORANPROGRESS

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She pointed up at the Black-backed woodpeckerthat lit against the trunk of a dead sprucethen turned to me and smiled; teeth grey-blue at the gums.

At the river’s edge, her red fingers cleanedthen pitched cold stones up stream like Goose Gosich. She wiped her palms on her thighs.

Crossing at a fallen cedar, she slipped, ankle deep, into the Nooksack. I laughed and stepped into the rushing water after her.

Under the soft pines, with our boots and stocking feetnext to a small ditch fire, she played with her braid, beat songs of the Puyallup on her thighs, and sipped from my flask. When the fire was buried, we made our way back across the river at North Fork, tired legs dragging.

Her mouth bit like whiskey and her hair smelled of soot and sweat, as she shoved one cold hand, pressed like a pledge, in my ass pocket.

Outside the hollow cab of the truck, grey clouds passed—grey like the breast of the pipit; like her breath on the window; like the mule deer in the ditch, a shroud of snow spread over its head by the plows.

What good is thisconsciousness of things—the catastrophe ballet of the songsparrow, the language of mountain ranges slurred into hollerslike the jawbones of fallen giants,the bitter velveteen tonguesof moss on the wallsof this gorge?

What good is thisconsciousness of the waythings seem as I watchthe horizon bite the goldcoin of the sinking sun,to know that soon you will leave and I will be left with only the whispersof you igniting the treetops in the summer sky of my mind?

What good will it doto know the tricks corruptedair plays with sunsets, the way combines stitch cornfields,or the riddles the brown bat cutsacross a toenail moon?

What good is thisconsciousness of any of it if I do nothing about it?

DAWSON STEEbERSNOqUALMIE, WINTER 1995

DAWSON STEEbEROH, LOVELY BIRD

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If you could use my eyes to greet the subtle winter sunand borrow lips to taste the salt-sweet air that blows in fromthe sea that flows and pounds,and sculpts the moundsupon the shore,you’d sense the candour in the art at work beyond your door.

So you may use my eyes to see the autumn wind-blown leavesthat sing and dance, and curl and prance and flit about like thieves.And I will lend my earso you might hearthem at your door,and you might wonder what that shield was really put up for.

And when you use my eyes to see the bluest summer skies,and use my nose to smell the cut-fresh grass just as it lies,you’ll breathe the scent;know the extentof your own empty heart,and place a hand upon your door and wish you could take part.

Now you can use my eyes to see the tilling of spring soiland you can touch the grainy stuff upon which others toil.And you will sowand then you’ll growfull heart to be unfurled,and open wide the door you closed yourself against the world.

ADRIAN LEACHMANUSE MY EYES

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Mostly it takes some time until the night,That hides the remains of the winter’s snow,Dim all bright skies that have been faced with plight,Above the streets when they’re unsafe to go,

Before the heavens are undressed and bare,As afterlife strips man of all its clothes,Causing youth’s curiosity to stare,Which all his saintly self-consciousness loathes.

Then it shall not take long until the night,Becomes a tired battery that runs low,As time will take away the sky’s delight,That, in the day time, it had used to know,

Before old age shall turn the sky pitch-black,Prompting the stars to come from everywhere,Making up for the light, the heavens lack,Before the day regains her horse-white hair.

Out from the soil, two poor farmers would dig,The delicate, secretive, purple fig,For folks of average wealth, or those quite posh,To cut in four after a thorough wash,

Before one meal served in many a home,Especially devoured by those in Rome;Sometimes youthful, sometimes a ripe, old womb,Budding forth her last child before her doom,

Only to turn into a painful sore,Within a flower that’s much too old to whore,But still too young for her nature to hide,Her sex-appeal that she “wears” with pride.

ERIC M WATHITHE SKY

ERIC M WATHIFIGS

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SHAMELESS PLUGSFROM THE TEAM

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TONGUE SUbMISSIONSSECTION FIVE

“That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.” ―- William Wordsworth

Jack UtleyPhotographer

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A Year of Change

WinterMother Earth teaches us humility every year, as the white blankets descend upon our plains. The grass seas turn from friend to foe and the plants of our lands go barren. Our tents offer little warmth and we must kindle great fires to weather these dark days. Struggling through this frozen sludge I go with bow and arrow drawn, there are deer nearby and their meat must sustain us until the cold is gone. Many say the Mother is a cruel beast, to kill so many in this way – yet I see the method in her way. We must not laze in her nurturing sun watching kids frolic and grown just because it is pleasant, we must work with the Mother all year round to ensure we survive her test. Those who succumb to sloth and avarice of the warmth do not deserve Mother’s bounty, but we who toil will live on yet. There it is, my prey, unaware of my approach as I work with Mother’s tools of wind and noise to mask my approach. My arrow is notched and I let it fly. Thank Mother for this bounty that I might live another day in her bosom of kindness.

SpringThis land is ours to prosper upon no matter what those heathens say. God’s light has guided us unto these bountiful plains and with his metal and wood and animals we might toil the land and grow in number. Land was broken here not two years gone, already the tree line recedes to our farms that horses plough so we might feast heartily. Those natives talk of offending the mother but they are wrong, if God did not want us to partake of this bounty he would strike us down. They are clearly wrong, look how they catch illness and starve whilst we grow strong. These are early days yet, we have but wooden homes and simply tools but the lands are rich with resource. Soon conveys will come to bring us silks and spices in exchange for our ores and then in stone to stand for all time against the barrage of wind and rain we will raise a church to our lord. I wish the natives would join us; to die for heathen ways is foolish. Can they not see the march of progress as we tame the wilds of nature to better live, as God decreed? I’m sure their resolve will weaken as they starve and dwindle and we grow, in time this little homestead of mine will grow and consume this entire forest. We will bring roads, stores, rail, power and so much more. Then these natives might see how we God’s favoured creation is meant to bend nature to our will.

SummerI never understood why they call it the concrete jungle. It’s as if they want to trick us, if it’s a jungle its natural and proper – not some bulldozer paved arena filled with bland grey, shiny metal and glossy glass. Don’t get me wrong; the buzz of the city with its million lights was like a drug that I could not quit, but it was no jungle. But did we really need a jungle here? The bugs and heat and wind, it would just ruin my hair and give me a rash of some sort. Nature is all well and good, but it’s best contained in parks where in can be manicured and clean, life is too busy to get ill or hurt by some overgrown trail. We even have a new tech shop in the old decaying church three streets overs. In there you could get all sorts of gizmos like electronic flowerpots and sunrise alarms – technology had trumped real nature by removing the smells and mess, what more could a girl need? I liked to watch nature shows, I wasn’t some glossy mag moron. I liked to be cultured. I kept a nice

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shelf of books and watched nature documentaries in the am’s when I was too buzzed from vodka to sleep – all the animals and plants were intriguing but best kept behind the screen. Summer in the city was the best, you could get a quick lunch from a café, soak up some sun in the park and all in time for a quick shower before a night on the town. So many people fled for the beaches or the country at this time of year, but not me. I did not fancy sweltering in some little shack just to enjoy nature when that very same sun was here and we had air-con too. I wonder if there is a cult somewhere that worships technology as a new deity of sorts, I’d join that.

FallThey tell me this was once known as a city – this twisted mass of false materials shattered to the ground. They tell me it was man’s triumph over nature, yet mighty trees have burst through fissures in their façade bringing in their wake even small grass and flowers whilst spreading vines work to tear down what little remains standing. If this is victory I wonder what failure is like? Our ancestors reached too far, wanted too much – do they not know we are of nature? To overcome it is a fool’s errand. Now we live in the wind, in the rain hunting in these shattered remains – I don’t see how we could need more. We still have those little luxuries – communication and simple entertainments to carry with us but we feel the wood of bow and steel of knife once more. Our numbers are failing, we are not built to survive disease or wound anymore. Who would want such breathless stone abodes when we are made to be as one with this world? If we learnt that sooner perhaps things would not of shattered. Perhaps they’d be more of us left. Perhaps they’d be more tomorrows.

SYMON ROSE

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burning Sun

The sun looked old, tired and red. It gave off only a gentle heat but it was unbearable in the windless atmosphere. The ground was barren, large cracks leading to caverns below scarred its surface. The caverns had been dug out over a millennium ago to store what was left of humanity, the only refuge from the poisoned air. Any evidence that there had ever been life here before was gone. Trees had become a myth for as long as mankind lived below ground and the lack of oxygen was painful on the lungs. He looked around the wasteland that had become all that was left of home and felt sick. In a time long ago he had read books on how the world would end and in his time he had seen the films. Every single one showed one event that would destroy the world. They had all described a moment, a flash, where everything would be gone. Not one had shown a future of waiting. Waiting for humanity to expend its resources, waiting for death to come. He sat in the dirt, all that surrounded him dirt, looking up at the only sight left worth seeing, the sun. It never disappointed. He had travelled to this time, this place, by accident. The lonely wanderer had arrived. His clothes, a brown shirt over faded blue jeans, were turned now and a patch of dried blood stained the stubble on his neck. He’d never learned how to go back, only forward. He had seen wars that spanned generations and then the famine came. He smiled as he remembered the adverts on the television that used to annoy him so much, words over sad music begging him to save one endangered animal after another. The wild animals were the first to go, after the fish, and then the horses. They managed, the people, to keep the cattle and pets for a millennium after that.

Now the sun flared, dancing spirals of burning hot light licking the earth’s surface. Maybe it was time. All life was gone except for him. Mankind had wiped themselves out by the thousands long ago. He was all that was left. An anomaly in time. His beard itched under the heat, each hair follicle tickling his skin. He reached up a finger and scratched it as the sun slowly burned the earth, and smiled.

LEANNE CARTWRIGHT

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JEREMY HIGHT

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JEREMY HIGHT

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RObERT GRAHAMwww.rob-graham.com

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RObERT GRAHAM

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MAY’S THEME: REbELLION. CLOSING DATE: MAY 21ST

There are many historical examples of the underdog overcoming the tyr-annies of their superiors, or the acts of a single fearless maverick helping to overthrow an entire government all in the pursuits of liberty, equality, and freedom. Yet we still live in a world where “freedom” is more of an ideology than an actuality. Our lives are influenced by the media, the expectations of our families, government and the rest of society. With all these people hav-ing a say in what is meant to be your life, are you feeling a little restrained, or maybe a bit oppressed? If you are a person who cares to speak your true mind and fight for your beliefs, that’s good, because May’s theme is rebellion!!

This month we want submissions that stand up, that shout the truth, and cant be quieted. You can write about rebellion or write a rebellion, and remember that politics isn’t the only thing to shout against.

Get involved, get published and celebrate what you have to offer our diverse world of words.

For artwork and photographs:

Rebellion for a just cause is inspiring, but changing the rules of the game doesn’t just apply to governments and dictators; the bikini and the miniskirt were respectively anti-establishment, and the two most controversial move-ments in fashion in recent history. Represent your perception of rebellion.

Closing Date for Issue 5

Saturday 21st May 2013

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