The Poet'sStone

W R I T T E N B YB E D A L E S S T U D E N T S

C O M P I L E D B Y A L E X C A M P B E L LA N D B E R I T P I L L

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The Poet'sStone

W R I T T E N B YB E D A L E S S T U D E N T S

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ALEX CAMPBELL AND BERIT PILL

ATHENA LUCASMABEL WATSON

ROO TRIMNAY MURPHY

ALEX LUNNGEORGIE DU BOULAY

JAKE SCOTTNORPELL WILBERFORCE

MIRANDA ROBERTSONJAKE SCOTT

FREYA HANNAN-MILLSJAKE SCOTT

GEORGIE DU BOULAYNORPELL WILBERFORCE

MABEL WATSONJAKE SCOTT

NORPELL WILBERFORCELIVI GROUT-SMITH

MYA SNOWDON-DARLINGBELLA DE ZORDO

Foreword I'm on a TrainMasha's SongThe Starling GardenTime MachineCurrent Status So Many Bad ThingsAmerican DreamA Royal MessMy Gothic Scene: Senza MammaThe City Fais Do-DoTrain SeatsI've Outgrown the ChainsThe End of the WorldThe ViolinShadows of ConcreteStone-age SupermarketAre Now ApproachingI'm not a Fairy-Tale Love Story Silence

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Table of Contents

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MYA SNOWDON-DARLING

JAKE SCOTTCONNOR O'DONOGHUE

NAY MURPHYNORPELL WILBERFORCE

EBAN MACDONALD

GEORGIE DU BOULAYLIVI GROUT-SMITH

MIA SOUTHALEX LUNN

DAVID ANSON

WavesLove Letters and Rotten LungsThe WindEyelinerSeabed SoiréeArt, Human Consciousness and the Capacity for Suffering I'm the Whisper in Your EarCow TrackGardening Peaceful BreathAfterword

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ForewordEach year, a compilation of  written work by Bedalians is prepared for circulation to the

wider school community. For 2020, we have collected a varied selection of poetry, short

stories and lyrics. Thanks to all the contributors! We hope you enjoy reading the

creative and stimulating pieces.

BERIT PILLENGLISH DON

ALEX CAMPBELLCREATIVE WRITING DON

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B Y A T H E N A L U C A S

I ’ M O N A T R A I N .I H A V E N E V E R B E E N O N A T R A I N B E F O R E .T H E T R A I N ’ S M O T I O N M A K E S M E F E E L L I K E I ’ M S W A Y I N G O N T H ER O C K I N G C H A I R I N M Y R O O M .I N O W K N O W W H Y S O M A N Y S T O R I E S H A V E A B A B Y B E I N G L U L L E DT O S L E E P B Y T H E M O V E M E N T O F A T R A I N . I C A N S E E T H E S U N T H R O U G H T H E F O G .T H E S U N I S B E A U T I F U L .T H E S U N I S S T R I P P E D O F H E R S H I N E B Y T H E M I S T , T O B ET R A N S F O R M E D I N T O A C I R C L E E D G E D B Y B L A C K .I T L O O K S A S I F S H E I S N ’ T T H E S U N A T A L L , B U T A H O L E I N T H ES K Y M A D E B Y A H O L E P U N C H . W H A T I F T H E S U N D O E S G O R O U N D T H E E A R T H ?I I M A G I N E H E R O N A T R A I N , C A R R I E D R O U N D I N S P A C E , S I T T I N GO N H E R O W N A T A T A B L E S E A T .I I M A G I N E T H E S U N B E I N G L U L L E D T O S L E E P .L I K E A B A B Y , O N A T R A I N , I N A B O O K .

I'm on a Train

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Masha's SongB Y   M A B E L W A T S O N

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THAT WAS THE GARDEN WHERE A FAMILY GREW.THAT WAS THEIR INFINITE PLAYGROUND, HIS PRIDE ANDJOYTHAT WAS THE GARDEN WHERE FAIRIES FLEW AND TOADSTOOLS RAN OFF WITH DUCKS TODUCKINGHAM PALACE,THE NAME THAT NEVER FAILED TO MAKE THEGRANDFATHER CHUCKLE.WITH BEES DRUNK ON HONEYSUCKLE,VIBRANT IMAGINATIONS GERMINATED IN OUR SECRETGARDEN. A TREE APPEARED WITH EVERY BABY, EVERY WEDDING:ROWAN FOR ROHANNA, SCARLET LEAVES TICKLING THEWIND AT EVERY MILESTONE,AN EARTHLY ANCHOR - ROOTS READY FOR HER RETURN. THAT WAS THE GARDEN OF NARNIA WARDROBES,ADVENTURES TO OTHER WORLDS WITH BORDERTERRIERS FROLICKING ALONGSIDE -THE LUCY AND MR TUMNUS OF KELVEDON.

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The Starling GardenBY ROO TRIM

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THE SUMMERTIME WARS OF CRICKET BALLCANNONBALLSBLOWING HOLES IN DISGRUNTLED HEDGES, LOST FOREVER IN THE POCKET OF A LEAFYKLEPTOMANIAC.SOLDIERS REFUELLED BY CHERRY PICKING AND ICELOLLIES - WISTERIA WATCHED THEM FEAST FROM THE VERANDA, YEARNING TO TRANSFORM INTO HUMAN FORM TO JOINTHEM,SALIVATING AT THE INTOXICATING AROMA OF FRESHCIABATTA BATHED IN OLIVE OIL.A BANQUET FIT FOR A QUEEN EMERGING FROMGRANNY’S KITCHEN. AND IN THAT GARDEN LIVED THE BARN WHERE THEBABIES WERE BORN,THE GARDEN OF LAUGHTER AND SCATTERED ASHES, TEARS AND SUMMER SUNBATHING SIPPING HOMEMADE LEMONADE BY THE POOL.THAT WAS THE GARDEN WHERE A FAMILY GREW.

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Stand tall. Don’t hunch.

Let your hair hang wild, messy, tangled.

Play. Smile. Laugh.

Don’t let your thoughts overtake your body. Be

confident.

Don’t be shy. You can be happy - if you try.

Let your flat chest feel the world.

 

Because in a while, you’ll treasure the

ability to smile.

To dance naked in the rain,

screaming your tiny lungs out of place - cold,

but ready for a warm chocolate milk under a

steamy shower

that tickles your pink, frosty toes.

To dress up as Prince Charming and Cinderella -

the knight and the ballet dancer.

Kiss kiss Mummy and Daddy shush.

Cacumph, cacumph, cacumph

your hooves splatter against the wooden floor.

Feel the soft, woolen fabric caress your tiny

doll hands

as you move about your teddy bears. 

Don’t worry - you’ll find the treasure

chest.

But beware!

It’ll be in the dark, Shadow Cupboard

where the Big Bad Wolf is:

never mind him! Huff and puff and blow

him away!

Go get it! Don’t be shy!

You are stronger than him.

Treasure the moment the monsters are

walking toward you,

three bluburry bobs of a million different

dots.

Mum! Mum! Why won’t she come?

She doesn’t care that they’ll eat me.

Imagination so wild,

like your long tangled Hair who always

has rough edges.

Wild, wide eyes.

Pull your mouth open large,

twist your wrist and tug your skin,

be crazy and crowded of yourself:

you are allowed.

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B Y N A Y M U R P H Y

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Curren t S t a tu sBY ALEX LUNN

I T H I N K , I F E E L

A N I L L N E S S -A C O M M O N - C O L D .

I T C H U R N S L I K E

A S T O M A C H A C H E ;A Y E A R N I N G I N

T H E D E P T H S O F O U R B O D I E S T H A T

C A L L S F O RO U T S I D E .

B U T P E R H A P S B E C A U S E

W E F E E L S I C K ,W E S H O U L D S T A Y

A T H O M E A N D V E N T U R E O U T W I T H

T H O S E W H O C A R E .

A S E A S W E L L W I L LC A R R Y A L L W I T H I N

R E G A R D L E S S , E V E N I F W A T E R I N A G L A S S

R E M A I N S C O N T A I N E D .

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S o M a n y B a d T h i n g sB Y G E O R G I E D U B O U L A Y

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American DreamB Y J A K E S C O T T

Can I sell you the life?Can I sell you the life?We’ll grow up and be rich,And you’ll be my wife,We’ll grow up and have kids,And we’ll ruin their lives,Can I be your American dream? Can I sell you the life?Can I sell you the life?I’ve got a boner for guns,And you’ll be fine,Then we’ll run out of fun,And get divorced down the line,Can I be your American dream? Can I sell you the life?Can I sell you the life?We’ll live off the land,And we won’t look within,We’ll kill with the white man’s hand,Based on the colour of your skin,Can I be your American dream?

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A Royal MessB Y   N O R P E L L W I L B E R F O R C E

The King (of Clapham Common)stumbles into the corner-shop and rights himself against the newspaper rack,a mangy, scabrous hand reaching out from the stained silk sleeve of his tattered(bath)robe,and scrabbles for support against The Times.He regains his balance,ragged Union Jack slippers battling for dominance over the general refuse on the shop-floor,and straightens himself up to his full scrawny majesty,bloodshot eyes imperiously surveying the cigarette and alcohol racksin a caricature of royalty surveying a banquet.Mind made up,and resolve firmed by the sight of his quarry,he points his staff (the local park’s finest) at a carton of Benson & Hedgesand a bottle of Dubonnet (losing some twigs in the process). What is more lint than silver clatters onto the till, butit doesn’t matter. The shopkeeper submits and gives him his due, and,gleefully cackling over his spoils, he stumbles back out of the shop –the last they see of him is his plastic flag,beaten by the breeze.  The shop-keeper tuts, and the queue clucks disapprovingly,but the truth is, nobody cares all too much.“It’s doing him a kindness”, they say; better to let him liveout dimly remembered days of glory and tradition long withered and dead,when the men who ran the world wore suits of armourinstead of pinstripe,whencountries were conquered with sweeps of the sword behind enemy linesinstead of strokes of the pen on dotted ones. 

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No, better to let him live in the past than to kill him with the present,and that’s why, these days,whenever the bedraggled taxman comes for his dues,they’re given to him with a pitying look and a pat towards the door,as the shopkeeper already turns to the next customer. Back outside, The King careers down the pavement, an obscenity of red, white, and blue against the grey concrete that eclipses it,something stuck to the sole of Time’s shoe and resisting its shakes.The drunk guest who won’t leave the party,desperately slurring songs of the nation to anyone who’d listen –but the men in suits and ties are deaf to his pleas, and they pass him by.He clings to their sleeves, a child wanting its parent to come and play;they gently shake him off, and go to work without him.

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My Gothic Scene:Senza Mamma Just as I am about to raise myself up, a cold,

damp hand clutches my shoulder. I try to cryout but to my dismay, no sound emerges.Panic; that is all I am feeling.   Slowly, Isummon up the courage to look at the ownerof the hand and… Oh no! Heaven forbid! It’shim! It is the man at the bottom of all mysuffering. The man who has been so cruel tome. It is my beloved child’s father. I try to ridmyself of his grasp but it’s no use. I look upat him with tears on the verge of falling. Heis just standing there smiling at me. I feeluncomfortable. Something about him isn’tthe same. He is extremely pale and his touchthat used to be so warm and dear to me, isnow cold and resembles that of a stranger.He comes closer and rests his ice-cold cheekon my burning one. All the feelings I used tohave for him suddenly come rushing backand all I want is to be close to him. I feelconfused. I should hate him but trying to justmakes me love him more.  He lifts me up as ifI was but a mere feather. The words he keepswhispering into my ear, I shall not repeat,  but they are just drawing me closer to him.He puts me down on the ground and looks atme. And then he leans in and just as we areabout to embrace each other, there is acrash of thunder. The spell is broken. He isabout to dig his sinful fangs into my neck sothat I may never return from this terribledream.  I finally manage to utter the screamthat I have been keeping inside me for allthese years. It is a scream full of hatred, painand suffering. I run faster than ever before.The only thought going through my head isthat I have got to get away from him. I runout into the dark, cold, stormy streets ofParis. I stop to catch my breath. I feel hispresence closing in on me. What am I to do?Everything is dark and silent. There is a crackof lightning and I see him striding towardsme. I realize now that my life is doomed. It’sover. The candle has been snuffed out.

Another performance, another tragic opera;another Parisian audience hurling bouquetsof flowers at me. You would think that Iwould be pleased that finally I have realisedmy dreams. But all I can think about is myson. My poor baby who has never even feltthe lips of his loving mother against his ownsoft cheek. My family took him away from methe minute after he was born. “Floria” theysaid, “this child is a bastard. Do you dare soilthe family’s reputation by keeping it? Do notbe foolish.” I hear those words ringing in myears all the time. It is a dark, stormy January evening. I don’tfeel like going outside so I stay after theperformance and wait until everyone hasgone. When I hear the click of the lastdressing room door, I go out onto the stage.The auditorium is lit by a single candle thatsomeone has forgotten to blow out. The onlysound I can hear is the distant rumble ofthunder. The light is flickering. I feel a senseof panic that I have never felt before. Some-thing isn’t quite right. The night - its silence,is pierced by a savage, sharp, shrill screamthat echoes from end to end of the operahouse. I turn around and to my horror I seemy own flesh and blood lying on the groundcovered in blood. My son who I loved somuch and was kept away from, just lyingthere. I run over to him but before I am ableto touch him, he vanishes. I can’t deal withthe pain anymore. I can feel the tears flowingdown my cheeks. I can’t help but break downand weep. Oh, why is the world so cruel!

B Y   M I R A N D A R O B E R T S O N

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The City meanscracks in concrete and aching feet,

The City means

fighting in the street and dreams to complete,

The City Meansdifferent to me than what it does to you,

Lost people in

skyscrapers with no view.

BY JAKE SCOTT

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The City

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5 M 2 5 M

Lydia glanced around her ordered apartment, sunlight streaming through theplantation blinds, casting even shadow lines on the polished concrete floor. Therewas a symmetry in those filtered lines which appealed to Lydia and she extendedher arm towards the window, light tattooing her skin with bold stripes. A barelyaudible soundscape of New York breached the still, cooled air inside: a bassocontinuo of snarling traffic, jackhammers and klaxons. The perky buzz of herintercom dislocated her thoughts. It was Carlos, the Doorman.

“Your ride’s here Miss, d’you wanna’ have me send up Charlie to help with yourcases?”

“I’ll be right down – no need for Charlie. I shan’t be away for more than a couple ofnights”

She checked her phone one final time, “American Airlines New York, JFK, to NewOrleans, MSY, L567 non-stop, no delay”.

Lydia had loved flying since a child, the minutiae of boarding cards and luggagelabels, the compartmentalisation of foil encased foods nestling perfectly on trays.The thrill of being offered a soda, the recycled, delicately perfumed air, blowing onher face from the overhead vents. Mostly though, it was the knowledge that shewas escaping from Baton Rouge and Pawpaw. This was her first time returningsince leaving for university. She silently counted the Thanksgivings she’d madeexcuses for, seventeen in all. Each year she would send Pawpaw a card, promisingto “make it next year” whilst knowing she never would. She sealed thoseenvelopes with a determination.

In return, every Thanksgiving she would receive a padded brown envelope,containing a single ten-dollar bill folded in thirds and a tissue encasing somegaudy piece of second hand jewellry. This last year it had been a rhinestone cherrybrooch, with one of the stones missing. She’d considered dropping it off at theGoodwill store, but was embarrassed to go in, so had tossed it in the trash atBryant Park. There was always a similar note accompanying these offerings ...

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Fais Do-DoB Y   F R E Y A H A N N A N - M I L L S

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5 M 2 5 M

There was a wall of heat at Louis Armstrong Airport, a densely humid cloak. Shequickly scanned the placard holding drivers, at the exit, searching for her name.Relief, as a tall seersucker suited man confidently strode towards her andintroduced himself.

“Miss Thibodeaux, welcome home, my sincere condolences. I’m T’Bill Breux – yourlate Father’s attorney, I have arranged a room at the Marriot, I thought you mightprefer ...”

Lydia felt examined, her response would determine the entire future relationshipwith the attorney; she decided to smooth the way, adopt the manneredconventions, play the role they expected of her. For the first time in years sheslipped into the Cajun dialect and replaced her straightforward, assertive gazewith the fluttering eyelash breathiness of a Southern Belle.

“Why Mr Breux, y’all are too kind. Caci c’est bon. Merci for arranging everything forDefan Papa – such a shock, I am blessed to have your counsel.”  

It worked, T’Bill smiled benignly and reached for her case then sauntered over tothe waiting sedan. As they drove to the hotel Lydia could see a padded brownenvelope on the seat next to the driver, her heart sank, she recognized thatenvelope; surely now that he was dead they would stop, she felt nauseous. T’Billsmelled of lemons and leather and cigars, she noticed a familiar gold masonicsignet ring on his little finger.

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Lay-Ja, Ma Pistoche.

I be Boo-dey to not see y

ou Cher.

A cherry lagniappe for

you to wear petit.

Fais do-do.

P A W P A W X

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“Well, Lay-ja, here we are. Everything is in place for tomorrow just as your Pawpawwished. This is for you, he left it with us just after Thanksgiving.”

T’Bill proffered the envelope with a smile, Lydia was sure he already knew thecontents. He turned to the driver and directed him to a shaded area in the parkinglot where oak trees draped in moss bowed to the ground.

“Landry, be sure to stay here, Miss Thibodeaux may need a driver”

Lydia watched with relief as T’Bill returned to his own car. She even managed asomewhat regal wave as he drove out of the car park. Everything around her felt asthough it was smouldering, a simmering heat, the rising crescendo ofgrasshoppers, her own heart beating harder as she tore open the envelope. Itcontained the last Thanksgiving card she had sent to her Father, on the back of thecard, written in her Father’s hand was a single sentence: Number Seventeen,Cherry brooch, from Alyssa.

Lydia felt an overwhelming sense of release and relief - this was fine, not somemacabre letter or tacky bauble to dispense with. She wondered what ‘Alyssa’meant; she tried to remember the name of the thrift store downtown. Closing hereyes, she struggled to retrieve a picture of the store: Nothing. So, she checked intothe hotel, made an order for some gumbo and began to prepare herself fortomorrow’s events. In the sterile, air-conditioned, corporate room Lydia finallybegan to think about her Father; how he had made her kneel on grits as apunishment for drinking soda, how he had cut her hair off when she slept becauseshe’d bought some perfume. She smiled, finally she was free – finally she’d neverhave to even acknowledge he was her Father. This ordeal was nearly over,tomorrow following the funeral the Will would be read and she could return to herlife in New York, both happier and wealthier.  

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T’Bill escorted Lydia to the Audubon chapel, unsurprisingly it was nearly empty. Ahuddle of men that Lydia presumed were pallbearers lurked in the rear shadows,she took her place at the front with T’Bill. The air was still and stuffy, then thecasket was wheeled forward. Lydia gasped, perched atop were sixteenThanksgiving cards. The sixteen cards she had sent to her Father – with writing,his writing on the back of each. She strained to read but T’Bill whispered.

“Best to let things be sometimes ...’

The curtains opened and the casket and cards slid slowly through anddisappeared. Lydia turned to T’Bill, she felt defiant.

“Laissez le bons temps rouler.” She cared not what he thought of her now.

“Tell me T’Bill, what’s going on?”

T’Bill held her gaze.

“Ah, you mean the cards, yes, that was a very particular request by your Pawpaw.They are all gone now, somewhat like his estate I’m afraid, which he endowed tothe Masonic Lodge. You see in your absence the Lodge looked after your Father. Hetrusted the Lodge with ... everything really. Still, he knew you’d have an everlastingmemory of him with his thoughtful yearly Thanksgiving gifts m’dear.”

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5 M 2 5 M

It was nearly midnight when Lydia finally reached the familiar comfort of herapartment building and stood in the cool drizzle outside, she’d phoned ahead toCarlos who had arranged for a grocery delivery.

“Welcome home Miss” said Carlos warmly. “Thank you, Carlos, it’s good to be home”

Lydia knew she would never again visit Baton Rouge or deal with the odious T’BillBreux. Her Pawpaw’s final act was as cruel as she knew he could be and shethought herself stupid for even considering it may have been any other way. Sheopened the blinds so that the neon glow of the city filled the apartment. It wasdone, she didn’t even care about the money they were welcome to it. The smokyaroma of percolating coffee teased its way to her and she reached into the grocerybag for the carton of half-and-half ...

And there she was ...

A face, on the side of a milk carton, looking straight at her. The hopeful smile of ayear book photograph. Alyssa Reynolds, Louisiana, Missing.

And there it was ... pinned to Alyssa’s blazer, a rhinestone cherry brooch with amissing stone.

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Train Seats

Many a bottom these seats have seen,All warn in and bursting at the seams,

Embedded in hairs and custard creams. 

Many a bottom these seats have seen,Once they were new and pristine,

Now they are far from clean. 

Many a bottom these seats have seen,Small, round, large and lean,

From the arse of a tramp to the bum of the Queen. 

Many a bottom these seats have seen.

BY JAKE SCOTT

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I ' v e O u t g r o w nt h e C h a i n s

B Y G E O R G I E D U B O U L A Y

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5 M 2 5 M A child sits in the clouds,the universe in its chubby fingers;            turning it over, twisting this way andthat,trying to piece together the puzzle.But when it can’t,when the pieces become stubbornand nothing fits,its teeth grindand nails ripand in its head is chaos and confusion,seven billion tiny voices babbling overeach otherto become a screech that rakes at itsearsand twists its jagged edges in its brain,corkscrewing into everything untilcontrol slipsand the colours start to scream andsmearlike fingers tearing through canvas.

Splintered geometry,shapes melting and warping,reality curling at the edges;everything spiralling and the noisenoisenoisedigging scarlet claws into its scalpripping into its thoughts,so that they writhe and flail on bloodyspikesuntil it’s too much to bearand the pressure buildsand is let outand all is a whirlpool of swirlingshardsuntil the fingers clench into a fist andeverythingisgone.

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The End of the WorldB Y   N O R P E L L W I L B E R F O R C E

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My violin lies achingto be played,

A silent animalthat cannot wait,

A gracefuldancer over my shoulder blade,

My love for heron which I do fixate,

Her voice ringsout; I’m trapped inside my mind,

An isolatedshadow of my past,

Where love andhate torment me till I’m blind,

The blissfulnotes are my escape at last.

I’m torn away,so fearful of this loss,

Pain echoes fromthe caverns of my heart,

And though it isa line I should not cross,

My witheredspirit yearns for a new start,

A solitary note,an angel cry,My first love

springs to life with our goodbye.

The ViolinB Y   M A B E L W A T S O N

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Shadows ofConcreteShapes of greenoverrun by shadows of concrete,A sense ofgentrification gone mad,The tweeting ofbirds is silenced by the trampling of feet,The fruits ofnature have decayed and gone bad, Replaced by shopfacades and streets,The sour taste offorgotten life this land once had. The wildlifeimposed by shards of cities, retreats,Stabbed by thesword of mankind,A deal was madebut man cheats,Any trace of whatwas here is hard to find, No sense ofblissful natural release,Instead only thetoxicity of man and his footprintcombined. Shapes of greenoverrun by shadows of concrete,The tweeting ofbirds has been silenced by feet,No turning backthe destruction is complete.

BY JAKE SCOTT

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The squeak-squeak of rubber soles is

instantly swallowed by the thick air

that seems to trickle like treacle down

through space,

oozing into the gaps between until

our shopper is a fly caught in amber.

Shambling through the aisles,

his strong jaw hangs down to his chest,

gloops of drool swaying

hypnotically as he plods,

barrel chest suffocated under a cheap shirt

bearing a stain like an emblem,

of last night’s chicken vindaloo

shovelled between rubbery lips

and ground down to acid

between mossy teeth.

His great neck strains, veins purple

against the starched hands that constrict it

and he wheezes while he walks,

and as he does so,

each string of drool pathetically flops

side to side like a prehistoric worm

blindly trashing about in the muck.

he squints through glazed eyes

at the garish signs that dangle before him

like low-hanging fruit or curling fingers,

and somewhere deep in his maggoty brain,

something clicks;

sausage hands reach out and fumble at the

clacking plastic,

discounts winking at him with fluttering

eyelashes and cheap mascara

and something that could have once

resembled satisfaction, or triumph, or lust,

or all three,

flashes across his slack-skinned face

and briefly ripples the hanging folds of

flesh

before they come together once more,

the pink, flabby curtains swinging back

into place.

Reverse evolution;

spines that were once bent down from

staring at the earth

cracking and shifting beneath the skin as

they straightened

to look into the gaze of the sun and beyond

only to be bent down once more

over the steel bars of a shopping trolley,

eyes fixed on the unending meadows

of scratched and polished plastic,

rubber soles plodding through the furrows

made by others – and ours – in the past

and you ask yourself,

where did the sun go?

Stone-ageSupermarket

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B Y   N O R P E L L W I L B E R F O R C E

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Are Now ApproachingB Y   L I V I G R O U T - S M I T H

The train waits for no one.Unassuming, whose spirit aMan made; come.Secular desires strike a nerve  Within low vibrations. Bent and fabricated, truths Are woven into scarves,Arm rests and individualisticinvincibility. Invincibility masquerading as fear,Disassociation from the self,And your pastures revolt. While the rats beneath us run free. 

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I'm not a Fairy-TaleLove Story

B y M y a S n o w d o n - D a r l i n g

W e ’ r e s i t t i n g t o g e t h e r i n t h e l o c k e r r o o m l i k e u s u a l w i t h t h e d o o r o p e nt o a l l o w f r e s h a i r t o c o o l u s . W e ’ r e o n t h e b e n c h w i t h m y t h r e e m a i n g i r l s ,p l a y a n o n g o i n g g a m e o f G o F i s h . “ K e l l a d o y o u h a v e a n y t e n s ? ” M a x q u e s t i o n s t h e t a l l , b l o n d e g i r l s i t t i n ga c r o s s f r o m h i m . “ N o , g o f i s h . U m m . L o u i s e , d o y o u h a v e a n y . . . T h r e e s ? ” K e l l a s p e a k sq u i c k l y b u t w e l l e n u n c i a t e d , k i n d o f l i k e a p o s h r a p p e r . “ U g h , h e r e . ” L o u i s e s a y s h a n d i n g o v e r ¾ t h r e e s . L o u i s e i s t h e s m a r t e s tp e r s o n I k n o w a n d i s t r u l y l o y a l t o t h o s e s h e l o v e s “ J e s s i e , d o y o u h a v e a n y a c e s ” K e l l a c o n t i n u e s , p l a c i n g h e r p i l e o f t h r e e so n t h e t a b l e . “ N a h g o f i s h ” I r e p l y , a s m u g s m i l e t a k i n g o v e r m y f a c e . “ T a n i a , y o u r g o ” “ M a x a n y f o u r s ? ” T a n i a i s a n a r t i s t a n d p e r f e c t i o n i s t w h o a l w a y s h a sp a i n t i n h e r f l o w i n g b r o w n h a i r . “ H e r e ” M a x r e p l i e s . “ H a v e a n y o f y o u t h o u g h t a b o u t t h e s u m m e rh o l i d a y s y e t a n d w h a t y o u r g o n n a d o ? ” “ N a h ” K e l l a s t a r t s . “ I t h i n k w e r e g o i n g t o S w e d e n f o r a f e w w e e k s . ” L o u i s e a d d s . “ I d o n ’ t w a n t t o t h i n k a b o u t t h e s u m m e r j u s t y e t , I w a n t t o t a k e i ne v e r y t h i n g n o w . ” M y c o m m e n t b r i n g s t h e w h o l e a t m o s p h e r e d o w n a p e g . “ J e s s i e , a n y a c e s ? ” T a n i a s a y s , t a k i n g u s a l l b a c k i n t o t h e g a m e . “ W h y d o e s e v e r y o n e k e e p a s k i n g m e t h a t , n o . ” W e a l l l a u g h . S o o n t h e c o n v e r s a t i o n d i e s a n d t h e g a m e e n d s a s p e o p l e p a c k u p t h e i rs t u f f t o g o h o m e . E v e n t u a l l y i t ’ s j u s t M a x a n d I . W e m o v e t o t h e w a l l e d s i d eo f t h e b e n c h w h e r e h e g o e s o n h i s p h o n e . I l e a n o n h i s s h o u l d e r w a t c h i n gh i m p l a y h i s g a m e . A b o u t 2 0 m i n u t e s l a t e r I t h i n k a b o u t g r a b b i n g m y w o r k s o w e c a n l e a v eo n t i m e . “ I t h i n k w e s h o u l d g e t o u r s t u f f ” I s a y d i s t r a c t i n g M a x f r o m h i s g a m e . W e s t a n d a n d a p p r o a c h t h e l o c k e r s . M y f e e t s t u m b l e o v e r t h e m s e l v e s ,b u t M a x c a t c h e s m e b e f o r e I c a n f a l l . I s t e a d y m y s e l f ; h e d o e s n ’ t l e t g o .

B E D A L E S 2 0 2 0

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M y h e a d t u r n s t o w a r d s h i m , o u r e y e s l o c k . H e m o v e s i n , h i s e y e s t r i l lb e t w e e n m i n e a n d m y l i p s . M y e y e s c l o s e , t r u s t i n g h i m . O u r s k i n m e e t s , c l o s e d m o u t h s a l i g h t t o u c h . T h e n h e p r i e s m y m o u t ho p e n , a n d t h e n e v o l u t i o n t a k e s o v e r . P o w , b a n g , p o p , f i z z l e . T h e f i r e w o r k s g o o f f i n a l l d i r e c t i o n s . At e c h n i c o l o u r e d s k y f i l l e d a w i d e r a n g e o f b e a u t i f u l h u e s , r a n g i n g f r o mm a g e n t a t o i n d i g o I k n o w t h e y ' r e t h e r e , b u t o n l y i n m y m i n d . I c a n f e e l h i sh a n d s s u p p o r t i n g m e h o l d i n g m e u p w i t h t h e l i g h t e s t t o u c h a r o u n d m yw a i s t . H i s b r e a t h s t e a d i e s t o a r e g u l a r r h y t h m o f i n a n d o u t , i n a n d o u t . Ic a n f e e l t h e w a r m a i r f r o m h i s n o s e t i c k l i n g m e . H e p u l l s m e i n , o u r b o d i e s p r e s s e d t o g e t h e r l i k e b o o k s o n a s h e l f . O u rl i p s h a v e r u s t e d t o g e t h e r . O u r t o n g u e s ; t h e w a t e r . M y h a n d s f i n d h i s h e a d ,m y f i n g e r s w e a v e t h e m s e l v e s i n t o h i s s h a g g y b l o n d - b r o w n h a i r . O u r k i s sb e c o m e s m o r e p a s s i o n a t e , p u s h i n g m y h e a d d o w n , m a k i n g m e p l a n t m yf e e t . T h e h e a t b e t w e e n u s r i s e s a s o u r f e e l i n g s b e c o m e c l e a r e r . O u r e m o t i o n st o w a r d s e a c h o t h e r a r e l i k e a r o l l e r c o a s t e r , a l w a y s c h a n g i n g d y n a m i c s .M a x h a s b e e n m y f r i e n d f o r y e a r s b u t o u t o f t h e b l u e h e k i s s e s m e , n o w ,a n d a l l I c a n t h i n k a b o u t i s h o w I l o v e t h i s p e r s o n w h o i s c h a n g e d f r o ms i l l y t o s m a r t , s h o r t t o t a l l , b o y t o m a n . H e h a s n ’ t g r o w n o u t o f h i sa n n o y i n g t r a i t s b u t h i s h u m o u r l i g h t e n s t h e d a y . H e r e , i n t h i s m o m e n t , w i t h h i s a r m s p r e v e n t i n g m e f r o m f a l l i n g , I f e e ls a f e , s a f e r t h a n I e v e r h a d b e f o r e . W e b r e a k a p a r t s l o w l y . I h e s i t a t e t o l i f t m y e y e l i d s , b u t a s t h e y f l u t t e ro p e n a n d t h e l i g h t f l o o d s i n , I s e e h i s e y e s . H i s p e r f e c t e y e s . T h e l i g h tc a t c h e s h i s i r i s e s m a k i n g a p e r f e c t r e p l i c a o f t h e o c e a n . S o b l u e w i t h ab l a c k h o l e d r a w i n g y o u i n . H i s e y e s s o c l e a r a n d d e e p a n d s o a d d i c t i v e t ow a t c h . “ I . . . I . . . I s h o u l d n ’ t h a v e d o n e t h a t ” I g o t o m o v e . P a n i c s t r i k e s m y f a c e . “ W h y ? W h a t ’ s s o w r o n g w i t h k i s s i n g m e ? ” M a x r e a c h e s o u t t o h o l d m yh a n d s , b u t I s n a t c h t h e m a w a y . A f r a i d t o b e h e l d . “ B e c a u s e I ’ m l e a v i n g ” “ I n a f e w m o n t h s . W e s t i l l h a v e t i m e t o b e t o g e t h e r ” “ I d o n ’ t w a n t t o f a l l f o r y o u . I c a n ’ t r i s k h u r t i n g y o u , o r m y s e l f . I ’ mb e i n g s h i p p e d o f f t o A m e r i c a f o r t w o y e a r s . I . . . I c a n ’ t f a c e t h e i d e a o fg o i n g i f I c a n ’ t b e w i t h y o u . ” “ U m m … o k a y … w h a t i f w e b r e a k u p b e f o r e y o u l e a v e ? ” “ N o ! T h a t w i l l j u s t m a k e i t h a r d e r . ” M y e y e s s t a r t t o w e l l u p . I s t a r t t oc r y . M e s s i l y a n d u n c o n t r o l l a b l y .

B E D A L E S 2 0 2 0

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H e h o l d s m e i n a h u g , h i d i n g m y f a c e f r o m t h e o u t s i d e . H e b u r i e s h i sh e a d i n m y m e s s y h a i r . I l e t t h e e m o t i o n s r u n t h r o u g h m e l i k e a n e l e c t r i c a lc h a r g e . B e f o r e t o o l o n g h e i s c r y i n g t o o , a n d w e s t a n d t h e r e , h o l d i n g e a c ho t h e r a s t h o u g h t h e o t h e r s l i f e d e p e n d e d o n i t . E v e n t u a l l y o u r t e a r s c o m et o a s t o p a n d w e c r u m p l e t o t h e g r o u n d s t i l l p r o t e c t i n g o n e a n o t h e r . I ’ mw o r r i e d i f h e l e t s g o , I w i l l c r a c k i n t o a m i l l i o n p i e c e s . U n c o n s c i o u s l y , I f i n d m y s e l f m o v i n g t o w a r d s t h e s o f a t a k i n g M a x w i t hm e . W e s i t h o l d i n g e a c h o t h e r f o r w h a t f e e l s l i k e h o u r s , j u s t p e a c e f u lm e r c i l e s s s i l e n c e . I b r e a k a w a y f r o m h i m a n d i n s t a n t l y f e e l t h e f r e s h M a ya i r o n m y f r o n t a n d g i v e a t i n y s h i v e r . I m o v e f u r t h e r a w a y , o n t h e l e a t h e rs o f a , s o w e a r e a t e a c h e n d . H i s e y e s l o c k o n t o m i n e a n d k e e p m ec a p t i v a t e d . W e s t a y l i k e t h i s f o r a w h i l e , n o t l e t t i n g a n y m o m e n t s l i p b e t w e e n u s ,u n t i l m y e y e s g l a n c e o v e r a t t h e w i n d o w . I t ’ s g e t t i n g d a r k o u t s i d e a n d t h em o o n c a n b e s e e n o u t t h e s k y l i g h t . W i t h o u t h e s i t a t i o n I t u r n m y h e a dt o w a r d s t h e c l o c k , t h e t i m e i s 6 . 5 3 , a n d t h e s c h o o l c l o s e s t h e l o c k e r r o o ma t 7 . 0 0 . I g o t o m y l o c k e r a n d h e g o e s t o h i s a n d I g a t h e r u p a l l m y f i l e s a n db o o k s . W e h e a d t o t h e c a r p a r k t o g e t a t a x i h o m e .

B E D A L E S 2 0 2 0

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Left by the sycamore treeBeneath the floral sprouting limbs,

Its collection of delicate white flowers Allow thin jaggers of light to penetrate the emptiness

 Below moss coated bark With ant infected roots

Where the sap settles in the thinly lined webs   

Further beneath the softly formed soil Scattered with signs of chickweed and buck weed

remains of roots from their last disposal 

past the thick layer of squelching and waterlogged mud,a pungent odour of scuttling beetles

 somewhere beneath the expanse of daylight

where life is far and few,where mud turns into sand

and sand to dust where all outside distraction recedes into the distance

 only then can you hear it.

BY BELLA DE ZORDO

B E D A L E S 2 0 2 0

Silence

3 1

Waves

B y M y a S n o w d o n -D a r l i n g

S o o t h i n g a n d r e l a x i n g m o t i o n ,

W i t h a l l t h e w o n d e r s y e t t o b e d i s c o v e r e d .

Q u i e t y e t d e f i n i n g , c o l d b u t w a r m i n g ,

P u l l i n g m e c l o s e r . T e a s i n g m y h a i r .

Y o u s w e e p m e o f f m y f e e t ,

U n s u s p e c t i n g l y r o m a n t i c .

B u t I g e t t o o c l o s e , y o u p u l l m e u n d e r .

I t r y t o e s c a p e y o u r g r a s p .

T h e d a r k n e s s s u r r o u n d s m e .

M y u n e x p e c t e d d o o m .

I o p e n m y m o u t h t o h u r t y o u ,

B u t y o u g e t t h e r e f i r s t . S i l e n c i n g m y c r i e s .

B e f o r e I k n o w i t , I ’ m l o s t . T r a p p e d ,

B y y o u r w i c k e d c l u t c h . H o l d i n g m e d o w n .

P r e v e n t i n g b r e a t h ,

E x p e c t i n g d e a t h .

3 2

BY JAKE SCOTT

Love Lettersand

Rotten Lungs

Love letters and rotten lungs, bedtime stories and toy guns.

 Concrete streams and broken dreams,

junky queens and fraying seams. 

Runaway busses with empty passengers,cracks in the walls and cigarette butt scavengers.

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THE BAR WAS EMPTY THAT DAY , OF COURSE IT WAS . IT WAS A WEEK DAY .

"ANOTHER ONE , BARRY . " I SLURRED , MAN HAD I HIT ROCK BOTTOM .

"THOMAS , I THINK THAT 'S ENOUGH . " REPLIED BARRY , " SO WHAT I F YOU

LOST YOUR JOB ? I 'M SURE THAT YOU CAN F IND ANOTHER ONE . "

"BARRY , I REALLY DON ' T FEEL LIKE TALKING ABOUT THIS R IGHT NOW," I

DRAWLED BACK , OF ALL PEOPLE I DIDN ' T NEED THE BARTENDER TO FEEL

SORRY FOR ME .

THE NOISE OF THE W IND ROSE TO A CRESCENDO ONCE MORE , THE

SOUND OF THE WAVES CRASHING DOWN ON THE NEARBY HARBOUR JUST

A SMALL , FUT ILE EXPLOS ION OVER THE DEAFENING CHOIRS OF GALES

WHIPP ING THROUGH THE SEAS IDE TOWN OF DALE .

BARRY WHISTLED IN AWE : " IT IS SURE P ICKING UP OUT THERE . "

"YEP . " I REPLIED , T IRED OF BARRY 'S SMALL TALK .

"THOMAS , YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET ON OUT OF HERE NOW I F YOU

WANT TO GET BACK TO LUCY AND THE KIDS . " BARRY SAID .

I NODDED , KNOW ING THAT I F I WAITED ANY LONGER, I WOULD

PROBABLY HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE BAR FOR THE NIGHT.

BANG !

ME AND BARRY LOOKED UP IN SURPR ISE , THE NOISE HAD COME FROM

THE BACK OF THE SHOP , NEAR THE STORE ROOM . BARRY KEPT HIS COOL ,

WHILST I WAS SCARED OUT OF MY W ITS : "DON ' T WORRY . " HE SAID ,

FORCING A SMILE BACK ONTO HIS FACE , AND I KNEW THAT HE WAS

R IGHT, IT WAS PROBABLY JUST THE W IND .

B E D A L E S 2 0 2 0

The Wind

BY CONNOR O 'DONOGHUE

3 4

HE WALKED OUT FROM BEHIND THE BAR TABLE AND WALKED INTO THE

BACKROOM TO INVEST IGATE , HIS FOOTSTEPS RECEDING INTO THE

DARKNESS UNT IL THERE WAS NO NOISE . THE ENT IRE BAR WAS S ILENT. I

CRANED MY NECK TO HEAR THE SLIGHTEST OF NOISE , I WAS HONESTLY

SCARED OUT OF MY MIND .

SLAM !

THE DOOR HAD PROBABLY JUST BEEN SHUT, I STARTED TO HEAR THE

NOISE OF FOOTSTEPS NOW THUMP ING THROUGH THE STORAGE ROOM

BACK INTO THE BAR. THESE STEPS WERE LOUDER, HEAV IER. BARRY WAS

LIGHTWEIGHT FOR A BAR TENDER, YOU COULD ALMOST NEVER HEAR

HIS FEET OVER THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE OF THE BAR, SO THAT IS WHY

THESE STEPS STOOD OUT TO ME .

OUT OF INST INCT I DUCKED BEHIND THE COUNTER, AND CRAWLED

ROUND THE BAR TABLE AND HID UNDER THE TABLE , SOMETHING WAS

NOT R IGHT.

THE STEPS THUMPED LOUDER AND LOUDER, THUMP , THUMP , THUMP ,

THUMP . UNT IL I SAW THE MUD COVERED SOLES OF HARDENED LEATHER

BOOTS . I HELD MY BREATH . THE BOOTS , WERE MASS IVE , PERHAPS THE

BIGGEST FEET I HAD EVER SEEN , AND IT WAS THEN THAT I KNEW THAT

BARRY HAD NOT RETURNED . I WATCHED AS THE FEET WALKED BEHIND

THE COUNTER, MOV ING QU ICKLY NOW, UNT IL THEY WERE DIRECTLY

BEHIND A MYSTER IOUS SMALL CUPBOARD THAT LAY HIDDEN IN A SMALL

CORNER OF THE BAR TABLE , COMPLETELY HIDDEN UNT IL YOU LOOKED

HARD ENOUGH . I STARTED TO BACK AWAY , FAST . I COULDN ' T ESCAPE

W ITHOUT THIS BLOKE NOT IC ING ME , BUT I HAD TO GET OUT OF HERE , I

HAD TO GET BACK TO LUCY . US ING ALL OF THE COURAGE THAT I HAD

IN ME , I QU ICKLY JUMPED UP OUT MY HIDING PLACE , AND , W ITHOUT

LOOKING BACK , SCRAMBLED TOWARDS THE DOOR. I DIDN ’T LOOK BACK

AT THE BLOKE STANDING THERE BECAUSE THEN HE WOULD KNOW WHAT

MY FACE LOOKED LIKE . IN A SECOND I HAD REACHED THE DOOR ON THE

FAR S IDE OF THE ROOM , WRENCHED THE HANDLE DOWN , AND PUSHED

HARD . THE DOOR WOULDN ' T BUDGE . I WAS NOW BEGINNING TO PANIC , I

FLUNG MYSELF AGAINST THE DOOR, AGAIN , AND AGAIN , TRY ING TO GET

IT TO OPEN , SO I COULD TASTE FREEDOM ONCE MORE , BUT IT WAS

LOCKED SHUT.

A LOW, GUTTURAL LAUGH STARTED TO R ISE UP BEHIND ME , R IS ING UP

HIGHER THAN THE CHORAL VOICE OF THE W IND IN A MENACING ,

MELODIC , SOLO .

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Shoulders hunched, long limbs curled up,

Craving confidence, she observes,

Learning silently,

Containing a rage of virility and femininity

As The Other Ones draw

Big, fat, black lines, caging their bored eyes.

 

Her slim, veiny hands,

Clumsy with excitement,

Tremble as she steals the stick.

Her rubber neck curls down,

Knees bent:

A giraffe crawling into a box,

Now she can see the mirror.

Long red nails tug the little skin on her bony

cheeks

To reveal an animated eye-ball

and below it sits a tiny pink water-line,

Like a worm under a goldfish bowl.

 

Five nails drag the skin, four fingers secure

the stick,

One little pinky flies above the rest in the

air,

The way a princess drinks her tea.

EyelinerB Y N A Y M U R P H Y Carefully and surely,

She places the magic stick

On the worm-like water-line

And paints a persona.

 

The spotted, dotted mismatched black liner

Redens her cheeks. She smiles.

A rosy, bony, face feels finer.

A lady’s pinky strikes the air,

The way a Queen sips her tea,

As she holds the stick,

The weapon,

The wand of estrogen.

 

She returns the borrowed stick

To The Other Ones

Who’s tiny, delicate, strong hands

Grab and put,

Pinky standing tall,

Into a zip-locked bag of

Magic.

 

Shoulders tight, long limbs flopping about,

She lifts her large foot up onto the hallway

step

And races down the corridor

With an eagerness to perform her newly

discovered

Beauty.

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WRAITHS GLIMMER IN AND OUT OF THE MIST,SILHOUETTES IN TUXEDOS AND BALLGOWNS

SWAYING AND MOVINGIN TIME TO THE STRANDS OF SILVERY MUSIC

THAT DRIFT THROUGH THE AIRLIKE PALE REEDS SWAYING TO A CURRENT THAT SWEEPS

ACROSS THE RIVERBED.THEY OPEN THEIR MOUTHS AND BUBBLE

AFTER BUBBLE OF PEARLY LAUGHTER ESCAPEAND SPIRAL UP THROUGH THE ROOM

INTERWOVEN WITH MUTED FIBRES OF COLOURED LIGHTTHAT WEAKLY DRAPE ACROSS THE MIST

LIKE THE GENTLY WAVING ARMSOF SEAWEED CARESSING THE WATER.

THE PIANO IN THE CORNER WAFTS ITS VELVET NOTESTHROUGH THE SYRUPY AIR AND THEY SAILLANGUIDLY ACROSS THE ROOM TO MINGLE

WITH THE LOW MURMUR OF LILTING CONVERSATIONS ANDPLEASANTRIES

SO THAT THEY BUILD UPON THE EARAS MANY STREAMS OF SOUND,INTERTWINING, OVERLAPPING

TO SEW A SOFT BABBLING THAT SWELLS LIKE SILK,AS WATER SLIDING ACROSS SILT-SMOOTHED STONES.

THE CLOUDS OPEN THEIR HANDS AND THE SUN SETS FIRE TO

THE WATERIN A WAY THAT PIERCES THROUGH THE SIFTING SILT

AND ILLUMINATES THE SEABED IN SUCH STARK, BLINDINGCLARITY THAT

THE METAPHOR IS BROKEN,THE MUSIC STOPS

AND THE FISH ARE FISH ONCE MORE.

Seabed SoiréeB Y   N O R P E L L W I L B E R F O R C E

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'transcendental’, are products of, and arecontingent upon, consciousness itself, anddo not possess external origins. Art’s value isnot derived from a purported ‘higherdivinity’, nor is morality existent within atranscendental mind. As empiricism and logical positivism bothargue, all beliefs must be founded onobservable empirical phenomena. However,there is clearly a spectrum of ‘materialveracity’; on one end, there are ideas whichare almost completely dependent on theneed for material verification, such asscientific ones. To be objectively true, theymust be subject to mathematical, scientificand empirical verification. However, theseideas are not totally dependent on thematerial itself, as truth is a union of matterand conscious perception. For something tobe ‘true’, the inter-subjective consciousnessof the idea itself must be exercised. All ideasare a combination of these two components,but some are more dominated by mentalphenomena, and less by materialverifiability. Science is clearly moredominated by mental phenomena less thanit is by matter. However, ideas such asphilosophy and morality are dependentmore on mental phenomena than they are

Art is a phenomenon which has elevated thehuman soul above normal creatures formillennia. It manifests our capacity forimitation, so Aristotle; our capacity forjudgement; our capacity for the distinctionbetween the right and the wrong, the sacredand the earthly, the human and theinhuman. Many see art as a moralphenomenon, one which may affirm ourbonds between us and God, so the religiousmay claim. However, art is in no way moral.To suggest this is to imply that art exists toserve a mechanistic purpose, such as toplease God, to teach man moral lessons or,as is becoming more and more commonnowadays, to affiliate itself to and promote apolitical message. This would signify that artis a means to an end, not an end itself, or agood in itself. The so-called ‘moralimportance of art’ is simply to demean thevalue of art itself. The importance,significance and value of art reside insomething much deeper than culture,politics and morality: it resides within thehuman mind itself. Let’s establish a fundamental principle: thatcertain phenomena, such as moralperceptions and creative senses, which oftenwe perceive as ‘higher’, ‘divine’ and even 

Art, Human Consciousnessand the Capacity for Suffering

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on material verification. Philosophical ideas,by definition, can never be refuted orverified by the empirical, factual andscientific. The dependency on theobservability of empirical phenomena isgreatly outweighed by their existence withinmental phenomena. Under every moral and philosophical system,one assumes that ultimately there exists an‘end’; an idea which cannot be questioned orreduced. Under the one I am presenting,consciousness itself, and the phenomena itcauses, are that end. There are ascendingcategories of consciousness within the mind,

and there exists ‘an ultimate category’,whose nature may reasonably be equatedwith the divine, the celestial and thetranscendental; for the more ‘philosophical’an idea may become, the more it may besubject to mental phenomena; and thus, themore the mind provides the objectivity of theidea itself. Consciousness, we caninvestigate any further, is the end itself; thevalue of existence itself. Art is a product ofhuman consciousness, its great emblem. Thepurpose of art is in no way mechanist; itexists as an expression of humanconsciousness itself; the exercise ofconsciousness, as an end itself.

B Y   E B E N M A C D O N A L D

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B Y G E O R G I E D U B O U L A Y

I ’ m t h e w h i s p e r i n y o u r e a r .I ' m t h e s c a r u p o n y o u r k n e e s .I d o n ’ t k n o w w h a t t o s a y[ s o m e o n e h e l p m e p l e a s e ] I ’ m t h e p a i n t e r o f y o u r n a i l s .T h e g u y w h o m a k e s i c e c r e a m .I ’ m t h e B I R T H M A R K u n d e r y o u r h a i r ,A n d I w a t c h y o u c r y i n t h e e v e n i n g . I ’ m t h e o n e y o u c a n ’ t r e c a l l .B u t I k n o w y o u s o w e l l .Y o u d o n ’ t t h i n k I ’ m y o u r f a t h e r /- m o r e l i k e a t a l e I ’ m y o u r b e s t f r i e n d .I w i s h I c o u l d s t r o k e y o u r h a i r .I ’ m t h e E V A L A S T I N G H U G /- a n d I l o v e y o u [ I L O V E Y O U A N D I M S O R R Y ] [ t h a t I l e f t ] A n d I ’ m s o r r y I c a n ’ t s t a n d a t o u r g a t e .A n d t e l l y o u I ’ v e m i s s e d i t a l l .

I'm the whisper in your ear

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A forgotten disjointed fracture, which,Unlike many

Who follow down, we do not.Yet, when lost,

Recovering over hills of trusted paths,An anomaly arises.

 Straight on; life continues and men

Marvel at their intellect.Turn left? Or, god forbid, right,And you mirror hooves stained

With lifeless excrement. 

Like them, you oblige, unwillingly takenTo fulfil momentary pleasure

Masking years of carpetedGreed.

But you are none the wiser.  

That as a participator you treadSimilar footing as those of your

Child rearing neighbours.Wrong turn.

And ignorance leaves me dry with contempt.

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Cow Track BY LIVI GROUT-SMITH 

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WE PLANTED A CHERRY TREE WHEN MY GRANDMOTHER DIED.NOT A TREE AS SUCH BUT MORE A BRANCH WITH BUDS.MY BROTHER AND I WERE GIVEN THE TASK OF BURYING,SO, SHOVEL IN HAND, WE TRUDGED DOWN TO THE BASE OFTHE GARDEN. THE SKY WAS WELL-DRESSED FOR A FUNERAL;COATED IN THE LINGERING WHITE BRIGHT GREY THAT PUTS MOTIVATION TO REST,AS IF HE HAD KEPT THE CURTAINS DRAWN THAT DAY. WE REACHED THE PLOT; FLAT AND SOFT. AND CAREFULLY NUDGING SLITS INTO SOIL ; THE OUTLINE WASTRACED.WIGGLING THE BLADE BETWEEN ROOTS UNTIL SECURE,MY BROTHER WOULD STAMPAND SLICE THROUGH CRUNCHING EARTH. ANGLING ELBOW TO HIP , HE BEGAN UP-HEAVING SANDY FLESH.

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B Y M I A S O U T H

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RESTLESSLY, WE SCOOPED, DUG AND GOUGED.WE WANTED THE EARTH TO STOP CRUMBLING,WE WANTED THE CORNERS CLEAN ‘N ’ CUT.BUT LIKE A CHILD PURSUING ARCHITECTURE IN SAND;THE PEBBLES AND DIRT WOULD LEAK BETWEEN OUROUTSTRETCHED HANDS. YET, ALL AFTERNOON WE HACKED AND GNAWED ATSTRUGGLING SOIL ,UNTIL A SMALL DIP PERMEATED TO A LARGE CASKET. HAND TO BRANCH, WE PLUCKED THE SAPLING FROM ITS POTAND LACING OUR FINGERS THROUGH THE HAIR-LIKE ROOTS;EACH ONE WAS WEAVED INTO DUSTED SOIL . A CONCENTRATION FELL UPON MY BROTHER. HIS STUMPY FINGERS NOW RHYTHMICALLY KNEADING THESOIL ;ENCIRCLING EVERY MORSEL OF DIRT AND THEN (WITH PALMS)RUBBING IT BACK INTO THE EARTH. HIS MEDITATIVE SWAYING AND NOW KHAKI CLOTHES MADEHIM NEARLY INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM THE HUNCHED BUSHESTHAT KNELT SCATTERED AROUND THE GARDEN. BUT, EVEN WHEN THE GROUND HAD MELTED BACK TO ITSSOLID STATE,HE WOULD NOT LEAVE HER SIDE. - - - - THERE IS A CHERRY TREE IN MY GARDEN BESIEGED WITHSMALL CONCAVED DENTS,ABOUT THE SIZE OF A CHILD’S KNEE. IT BUDS AND BLOSSOMS WITH GREAT FECUNDITY,YET, THE FRUIT IS LEFT TO MELT, DARKEN AND DISAPPEAR.

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Peaceful BreathB Y A L E X L U N N

I N T R O S P E C T I O N I S N E E D E D F O R Q U I E T A N D M E A S U R E D

A C C E P T A N C E O F ‘ U S ’ .

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AfterwordIt has been a strange and emotional few months; a time when the whole world changed and

we along with it. I am very proud of 'The Poet's Stone' and I am so pleased that even from our

various positions of isolation our community has come together to create this incredibly rich

and varied edition of our student produced and edited magazine. It is testament to the

creativity and passion of all our students that in the face of adversity and change such

creativity can still thrive.  The annual block 3 / 6.2 walk to the Poet's Stone was unable to take

place this year due to the early closure of the school in March but both year groups are

represented here; I hope this year's edition can go some way towards embracing the spirit of

unity that this walk represents and that is so important to us here at Bedales. My thanks go to

Berit Pill and to Alex Campbell for their careful editing and their eye for the beauty of

expression that can be found in language.

'You English words? I know you: you are light as dreams, tough as oak, precious as gold...'  Edward Thomas

DAVID ANSONHEAD OF ENGLISH

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T H E P O E T ' S S T O N E

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T H E P O E T ' S S T O N E