n

Nuclear paradigm?Paradise? Paradox /

Lost love /Lost life

Desire for desiredsDespair / divorce

Downwards soundlessDrowning in contrary motion

Complicated emotionUnrequited devotion

Inspired by beautyBeastly, fruity,

Backwards from fallingFlying out of love

Crescendo in a crash courseOn cracking up, crazy for

Starlight shine whiteCrying eyes bright

Brilliant with lightLosing, losing

The fight good GodHe’s gone for good, oh God

Give me a second chanceChance for second love

Fly- she’s a doveDive from darkness

New happy heart unbrokenNew devotion?

Cautious caring, Daring darling

Dearly beloved, be quiet, Be mine once more?

Again nothing gainedJust pain / pained this

Paradigm / Paradise // Paradox / Paradox /

Love’s Labour Lost

u

I want to be a poet. I want- leave me at the front and light me well -I want to call out curious words in order,to come and sit uneasily with the mind,and cause a kind of comfort.

I want to draw sweet sayings out of the world,wisdom from a child, or -or perfume from a flower perfume from a flower, oh! - softly-sweetly taste on my tongue.

I want to itch away at earthuntil it looks a little nicer,like...the way Cambridge looksnicer in spring;until I can feel my voiceuntroubled on the moss,resplendent in unfinal green.

(un)sound

Woman-cut/wood-hole,caress pressed, unexpect—express, exhale, impressimpressions settle into rhythm almost—

(sound is just air movedis that/isn’t that—) beautiful?

jagged stabbed jazz attackslip of the— tip of the—sax fingertipped/fluttertongued

(silence is just sound removed isn’t that/is that—)modern?

swans/seals screama shattering scintillation of silences

u

u

u

Odysseus

‘Sing in me, M

use,’

I have no name; lying cyclopsed

By some steel stinging touch

That cut a cavern, deep into the bone:A

vivid horror in a clean lime crag.

Take beauty and then twist: here lies a m

onsterBut now

he hides in stiff white linen sheets.

I struggle up to gasp as waves of shells

Crash dow

n around the bed - yet all is stillThe fear that bites blood from

my lips in dread

Is one more ogre lurking in m

y head.I drift aw

ay, as flotsam on sleep’s tide.

Waking sodden to som

e isle of thought,She hovers by m

y face with lover’s hands

A w

itch white clad w

ith glazed and aging eyes.So intim

ate, so close and yet so cold.H

er rough undressing rips off squeals of pain,U

nmanning m

e to swine. M

y honour bled,R

ecoiling from the rub of flannel teeth

Begs Morpheus to bring sleep’s curtain dow

n.

An age they hold m

e, some nights draw

n to yearsW

ith fever’s harsh calypso in my ears

And C

yclops howling anger to the sea.

But as the pig-skin sloughs and I am m

an,They say that I am

well and at w

ar’s end.So I shall hom

e, to wife and son for peace

Praying that in their arms I m

ay find restN

ow red-crim

ped poppies wreathe m

y bloodied way

And crosses fence the road.

n

Man

’s R

ising

“O m

y Am

eric

a! M

y ne

w-fo

und-

land

”

- Jo

hn D

onne

, Ele

gy X

IX Be

fore

god

s rai

sed

our k

ind

from

the

dust

, bef

ore

they

ble

w li

feIn

to r

ibs a

nd c

lay, b

efor

e th

e en

dles

s day

s of p

arad

iseA

nd th

e le

gend

s; be

fore

the

burs

t exp

ansio

n of

the

univ

erse

, you

r che

st,

I fou

nd y

ou, o

n th

e flo

or o

f a si

lent

, dep

thle

ss se

a, sk

itter

ing,

Lim

bs c

arve

d by

a g

odde

ss, o

h, m

y se

aflo

or A

doni

s,O

ut o

f sto

ne. S

tagg

ered

by

your

rang

e, I

took

my

feas

tIn

eye

s and

wor

ds, a

nd d

id n

ot y

et to

uch.

My

own

com

plac

enci

es a

nd se

duct

ions

; I w

ould

hav

e sw

ept

Your

ash

into

a y

awni

ng u

rn o

f min

e, a

nd re

fash

ione

d yo

uA

skew

– n

ot m

ine

to k

now

the

perf

ectio

n of

you

r dim

ensio

ns,

Fing

ertip

s, no

r you

r den

sity,

nor t

he th

in si

lver

Behi

nd y

our p

alm

. Oh,

wha

t we

have

don

eIn

the

nam

e of

a k

indn

ess m

akes

mon

ster

s of u

s(A

re th

ese

ethi

cs m

ine?

), no

t for

us t

o ch

oose

, all

too

muc

hEx

pres

sed

in th

e ae

sthe

tic, a

nd th

ere

I lef

t you

At t

he b

otto

m o

f the

wei

ght o

f not

hing

ness

Roo

ted

timel

ess,

intr

ansie

nt. I

wal

ked

on;

Ther

e w

as n

o sa

lt in

my

look

ing;

I di

d no

t tur

n ba

ck.

Be m

y vi

sion.

We

coul

d sit

for h

ours

On

a di

stan

t pea

k, a

nd c

onte

mpl

ate

the

unkn

owns

Of t

his n

ew la

nd I

wou

ld e

xplo

re; t

here

is n

o lo

veW

e do

not

plu

nder

from

our

eld

ers,

no so

urce

We

will

not

min

e, if

you

are

but

will

ing

For t

he m

inin

g. C

ome,

pla

ce y

our l

ong

legs

Befo

re m

e, th

at I

may

rob

you

Of r

esou

rce,

and

hol

low

you

r bon

es –

my

fine,

stro

ng A

ryan

,I w

ant t

o kn

ow y

ou b

efor

e yo

u w

ere

born

, to

tast

eTh

e in

noce

nce

on y

our b

reat

h, b

efor

e th

at y

our m

ind

was

mou

lded

.W

ould

you

be

the

blow

to fi

nish

me?

Let

you

r att

ack

com

e, sw

ift,

All

is ye

t to

be w

on; I

take

dow

n m

y se

ntin

els,

I ret

reat

into

you

. The

wav

e th

at sw

allo

ws,

I will

stri

p yo

uLi

ke a

n al

tar;

ther

e is

muc

h le

ft to

be

foun

d.

Take

the

bott

le a

nd g

ulp

quic

kly,

until

you

onl

y su

ckO

n ai

r; n

ow y

ou k

now

the

desp

erat

ion

in e

very

pau

seBe

fore

the

regu

lar c

lenc

h of

you

r hea

rt,

In th

e ab

senc

e of

thes

e fin

gers

of b

lood

that

snak

e th

roug

hout

you

.I w

as th

e la

st sh

ot o

f a sé

ance

, one

You

trie

d to

kee

p, a

fina

l flin

g be

fore

the

time

For s

obri

ety

cam

e, a

nd ti

tle-d

eeds

, exe

cuto

rs;

A ti

me

befo

re c

once

rn, w

hen

you

still

hel

d on

To th

e ve

stig

e of

you

th. N

ow le

t go.

You

are

not e

ndle

ss, w

ither

ing

like

old T

ithon

,Yo

u w

ill e

nd, t

here

is so

met

hing

fini

te to

you

,Si

nce

I plu

cked

you

from

the

infin

ite, y

our d

uty

has b

een

Dea

th, a

nd d

eath

all

your

dre

ams a

nd a

ll yo

ur lo

ves.

Whe

n yo

ur b

ones

cre

ak fo

r me

like

the

pipe

sIn

this

old

hous

e, a

nd y

our e

yes,

all t

hat i

s lef

t of y

ou,

Sink

into

milk

-blin

dnes

s, do

not

cal

l me

your

Aur

ora.

n

n

Sad eyesMan runsMan singsMan speaksMan never diesLet’s have funlive like kings

dance for weekson natural highs

And whilst he humsthose beautiful things

which sound so new, so chicStay a while, forget you ever had

those connections and ties.

When no-one even notices thatyou’re the one who cries.Your make-up starts to streakas the clock bell ringsour feelings numbedForgotten sighsIt’s getting bleak

sorrow clingssociety shuns.

Man was never wiseMan peaksMan stingsMan stuns

Sad eyes

n

n

u

TRAIN

“It’s good to change, when you can, but the red one? Really?” “A little bit of colour. You want to stand out on the Piste. ““Simon says it doesn’t matter”“He’s not the one that has to wear it.”

Black beech trees, starting up from the ground around me. It’s very military, like a gun salute- a special train taking you to your final resting place, trundling along kakakakaka on those spindly little metal fingers like a caught centipede. I’m surprised you want to go there at all. ‘Where you’re heading you can’t take a train’- it wouldn’t fit up the mountain. At least if anything happened the red one would catch St Bernard’s eye- you’d spot me from a mile off that way, a blood- dot like a pin-prick. “Kakakakaka”- another body drops. You can’t see this but just between the hay- stocks there’s a little snow still where the sun doesn’t shine.

Is it the same stuff? here it all turns to sludge, or is covered in a film of ice so that when you tread down it feels hard and mean and you lose your footing.

“I’ll have a cup of tea please”

You could do with one of these. I can see you wrapping your blue fingers around the soft polystyrene, the steam blessing your burnt nose- funny that-“When I’m gone I shall send you a postcard”Funny that it’s organic, this bread. You don’t expect that from Network rail. What was it again? A ‘small good’ something?

You’d say everything is organic. Well, looking out the window it would seem that you were right. Snow-dust-ash. They’re all names for the same thing. Particular. Take any one in between finger and thumb and it will dissolve. Good.

“When do we get in?”

You stop to look at the rolling names and numbers on the screen. Start to finish in a big book almost- This is Your Life- arrive Heaven 3.30. Make some tea. But sometimes I wish we had hours. I wish I could take this train like a spear, photoframe its long slide west catch each moment in its entirety- all dimensions. Know exactly where we were when you asked“When do we get in?”

Each line on the track is a marker - that sound again: kakakaka – here I raised my finger to the steamed glass and wrote – kakakaka - you flick through the catalogue and crease the corner of a page. The ash- black trees are like fossils too, the carriage a vacuum test- tube. That makes sense, I suppose, of the groove in your seat I can still just see, though it’s melting fast into the horizon, into the rough lines of the bench, the gangway, ‘the plank’ almost. I almost said.

“I walk the line” hum hum, “I walk the line”

Now as you trip back to your seat I think that. And I think perhaps I can play-stop-rewind-stop-play. No-one does that anymore- now you can just ‘skip.’ Though maybe there’s a scratch along the disk because here I am in the same seat. Here I am.

Outside the snow has thawed, runs along the thick grass, slips into boot tracks. Paths intersect, a moments pathos as the blood mixes. One slides longer, and deeper, another peters out into a grass bank. Underneath this surface the clay is being choked. First the concrete of ice. Then the tarmac of snow.

Why would you want to go somewhere where it was like that all the time?

As the snow melts on the subject’s skin the water intensifies the sun’s rays, causing the skin to peel in long thin strips. Already the friction from the ice, so cold it burns, has blistered the flesh black. Fire and ice.

“What was it?”“Edema”To the heart or to the skin. It all sounds a bit dangerous but, you know the risks and

“what was it?”“I remember when my feet slipped. For some reason the rope loosed from the sling and I fell back, back back. Below me must have been sky because above me I could see the rock face like the world had spun upside down.” And then (cup of tea please) you must have carried falling up, watching the ice break into the brown rock further down, the light catch your glasses, sending life splashing around your eyes in technicolor. Not real. Somehow you had time to imagine your limp body rolling, like a felled tree through the brook below, given over to fate. Then the rope snapped taught as a sinew, pulling your neck back-forward-back and your legs up to your chest in a mid air prayer. You clasped your hands around the cord like a new – born. In that moment every film you’d ever seen was there.

n

n

Late

Spr

ing

is ve

ry m

uch

a pa

ean

to

fam

ily li

fe. S

hot i

n bl

ack

and

whi

te a

nd

set i

n po

st-w

ar Ja

pan,

Lat

e Sp

ring

tells

a

simpl

e st

ory.

Nor

iko

is tw

enty

seve

n ye

ars o

ld a

nd

is st

ill li

ving

with

her

fath

er S

omiy

a, a

w

idow

er. B

ut, a

t her

age

, she

shou

ld

have

bee

n m

arri

ed a

long

tim

e ag

o.

Som

iya

feel

s com

pelle

d to

giv

e up

his

only

dau

ghte

r des

pite

her

relu

ctan

ce

to le

ave

the

life

and

the

fath

er th

at sh

e lo

ves s

o de

arly.

No

life

wou

ld su

it he

r be

tter

.

She

was

nev

er h

appi

er th

an o

n th

eir

daily

com

mut

e in

to To

kyo,

Som

iya

read

ing

over

her

shou

lder

. Bet

wee

n th

em e

xist

s a p

erfe

ct e

quili

briu

m. W

hy

chan

ge w

hat w

as a

lrea

dy p

erfe

ct? T

here

is

a sa

d in

evita

bilit

y th

at N

orik

o ha

s to

bid

fare

wel

l to

her e

xten

ded

girl

hood

an

d no

mat

ter h

ow u

nwill

ingl

y, en

ter

into

her

long

del

ayed

wom

anho

od.

Ther

e’s l

ong

been

a tr

aditi

on in

Ja

pane

se li

tera

ture

that

talk

s abo

ut th

e tr

ansie

nce

of th

ings

. The

eph

emer

al

natu

re o

f life

and

the

bitt

ersw

eet

sadn

ess o

f its

pas

sing

are

sum

med

up

in th

e co

ncep

t of ‘

mon

o no

awar

e’.

Thin

gs h

appe

n in

life

, life

hap

pens

, th

ings

fall

apar

t, an

d w

e ar

e no

mor

e in

co

ntro

l of t

heir

hap

peni

ng to

day

than

to

mor

row.

All

that

’s le

ft fo

r us t

o do

is

to st

and

ther

e w

atch

ing

thei

r sha

dow

s in

exor

ably

diss

olve

and

sigh

our

slow

la

men

ts. T

he m

ost f

eted

man

ifest

atio

n of

this

cultu

re is

that

of t

he H

aiku

. One

of

the

mos

t fam

ous a

nd e

mbl

emat

ic

Hai

kus i

n Ja

pan

is M

atsu

o Ba

sho’

s fro

g po

nd:

The

old

pond

;A

frog

jum

ps in

—Th

e so

und

of th

e w

ater

.

The

wor

ld e

xist

s, w

e an

d ou

r ac

tions

disr

upt t

hat c

ontin

uum

for

a m

omen

t, an

d th

e w

orld

car

ries

on

. Zen

spir

itual

ity is

som

ethi

ng

bloa

ted

into

car

icat

ure

in th

e W

este

rn m

ind,

but

to m

e ‘La

te

Spri

ng’ i

s a d

emon

stra

tion

that

a

life

info

rmed

by

an u

nder

curr

ent

of sp

iritu

ality

is su

btle

, tac

tile

and

prof

ound

ly si

mpl

e.

Whe

n So

miy

a ha

s fin

ally

mar

ried

N

orik

o of

f, an

d th

ey h

ave

part

ed,

we

are

left

with

a sh

ot o

f thi

s ag

ed, t

hinn

ing

man

with

his

back

to

us,

sittin

g by

the

sea,

pee

ling

an a

pple

. He

wat

ches

the

wav

es,

expr

essio

nles

s. A

man

sitt

ing

by th

e se

a, w

ith a

life

time

of fe

elin

gs fe

lt,

just

sitt

ing

ther

e. T

his i

s wha

t life

is,

a qu

iet s

urre

nder

to in

evita

bilit

ies.

Smal

l un-

extr

aord

inar

y m

omen

ts,

and

life

pass

ing,

just

pas

sing

us b

y.

Late

Spr

ing

capt

ures

so

sens

itive

ly a

nd p

oign

antly

the

extr

aord

inar

ines

s of b

anal

litt

le

mom

ents

and

cel

ebra

tes t

hem

. Th

e Am

eric

an W

rite

r Elb

ert

Hub

bard

onc

e sa

id, ‘

Litt

le m

inds

ar

e in

tere

sted

in th

e ex

trao

rdin

ary;

gr

eat m

inds

in th

e co

mm

onpl

ace.’

Th

e co

mm

onpl

ace

is of

ten

so

muc

h m

ore

extr

aord

inar

y th

an th

e ex

trao

rdin

ary.

Thou

ghts

abo

ut Y

asuj

iro

Ozu

’s fi

lm L

ate

Spri

ng

This is a canvas

These canals like veins breathe on summer daysgraffiti names and vows of love scrawled under bridgesthe sunset’s haze burns behind desolate factories asskeletal gasworks tower over half-built frames of offices andthe gentle sway of boats soften the sound of a radio’s half-buzz.We snake our way from wealth through forgotten gardensbarred windows and stray footballs, from landscaped lawnsto half-wild embankment, tracing the remnantsof great urban plans, the dreams of architects and the livessof unseen strangers, the marks left by use and love, by misuseand distrust, looking for a code in the chaos, finding only yourhand in mine, light projected in the water, the city in our hearts.

u

n

Jorge Macchi is a Latin American artist whose works explore the absurdity of everyday life and the complexity of the simple. His spectators are invited to find their own interpretations of his work, Macchi asking of them only to stop for a moment and question the way in which they usually view and understand the world. His works include “Amsterdam” (2004), a map of the city with the land cut away, leaving only a canal skeleton remaining, “Caja de música” (2003), a video showing a birds eye view of a motorway which plays as a musical box as cars enter the frame, and “Parallel Lives” (1998), a Gran fragata matchbox, a popular brand in Argentina, filled with 400 matches lying in almost exactly the same position on either side of it.

Buenos Aires Tour (2003), my favourite of his works, is a project aimed at giving an alternative tour of Macchi’s home city. To determine the route of the tour, he broke a piece of glass over a map of Buenos Aires and then chose 46 points along the fracture lines. At each point he took photographs, made sound recordings and collected items and the tour can be re-created by using a box he made that contains a guide, a map, a CD-ROM, a dictionary, a mass book, a letter, postcards and stamps.

The result is an illuminating and magical guide, which takes the viewer through the real and everyday life of a city rather than to the “significant” tourist destinations.

Inspired by Macchi’s work, last summer a friend and I set out to produce a guide of London. Rather than breaking a piece of glass, we splattered red paint across a map to determine the places we would visit.***

Although it remains a work in progress (we have documented just 12 points, and have over 150 more to complete), so far it has led us to places we would never normally have visited, and helped us to consider our surroundings in finer detail. In the 12 points around Euston station, we came across the Old Carreras Cigarette Factory, a fantastic Egyptian inspired Art Deco building guarded by a pair of metre tall black cats, were given a guided tour of the Somers Town Community Centre, and met the owner of the Middle Eastern Supermarket on Eversholt Street. We also collected many items including a misplaced Trivial Pursuit card, an art-print of the Café de Flore in Paris, discarded by Tommy Flynn’s Bar near Mornington Crescent, and a half written letter. Everything was documented.

u

Painting on a curved surface

The clock struck ten. A greenlily flecked with nutmeg spotsbloomed in a glazed pot by theopen window. Mozart was seated at the sec-retary in the Green Saloon ofAztec House writing a letter tohis cousin in Ephesus. Lady Alexandra entered theroom carrying a trivet of wal-nuts and water biscuits. Desmond Duffy was waitingin the Circular Hall. ‘We are going to Parrsborotonight,’ she said. ‘And Octavia will be there.’ ‘And Octavia will be there,’she echoed. Mozart directed his gazeinto the evening light. ‘Can you guess my secret?’he asked. She flashed her fine eyesat him and laughed. She said,‘Every bicycle is haunted byan invisible horse.’ Mozart stood up. The wisteria was tappingat the French windows. The candles were unlit. Sawyer Hall was waiting.

u

Suite For Solo Cello

First strokes. First notes. Like those first awkward glances. The curved outline of an instrument where it presses against the skin, the skin just beneath the collarbone.

Those are the things he noticed first. Her face, so concentrated, so still almost, yet so changing. Like ripples crossing a river, dark folds of water suggesting something underneath. And the hands, fingers, lips. Puckered when something momentarily slipped, a gasp of a pause in the space between the strings and the bow. A pause which hovered there, as the music still seemed to go on around him, and which then, with a definite nod of the head, a squeeze of the hips, the bow back on the cello, carried on.

u

‘Pianism’ in the A

rchitecture of King’s C

ollege Chapel

Insofar as

the ratio

of black

keys to

white

keys in

a standard

88 key

grand piano

is9:13

(36 black

keys and

52 w

hite keys)

we

could see

the sam

e pattern

in the

architecture of

King’s

chapel.Expanding

9:13 to

18:26, there

are 18

window

s com

posing the

east and

west

window

s, respectively.

Also,

the north

and south

fronts are

composed

together of

26 structural

bays -

18:26, or,

9:13.This

is not

to say

that all

or m

ost of

the m

usic played

in the

chapel is

on or

for an

88 key

grand piano.

All

that is

being suggested

here is

that insofar

as m

uchW

estern m

usic is

composed

on or

for a

standard grand

piano (such

as B

rahms’s),

then it

follows

that that

kind of

music

would

converge w

ith one

aspect of

the chapel

design, and

that it

makes

sense the

chapel w

ould be

an appropriate

venue for

it.

n

u

u

u

Whe

n A

ll Th

is I

s O

ver

Whe

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u

Yes, to speak without words,Yes, to speak withoutYes, withoutYes What?

n

n

from ‘Soldier, Soldiers’

After the war endedEverybody forgot how to speak.It wasn’t an inconvenience,It was a necessity.

Men stopped crying,Women wore large coatsAnd babies stopped being born.Only the cars were cold.

The boy next door – I remember -Had a stiff foot but anAerodynamic laugh. I rememberWhen his parents died,

He forgot which foot hurtAnd why he should smile.I blamed the war and theWeather – He blamed God.

Tomorrow they’re launchingMillions of balloons just outsideThe old brick hospitalIn memory of the survivors.

It was a war, they say,Where nobody died;No one who fought in itNo one who saw it coming.

If I stare at the waterAnd stand with the light on meI can see myself floating,Resting on dark cold water.

I know why my body is cold anywayI remember being told.I am also empty and haveNo use right now...

n

u

n

n

n

Grozny

A city groomedShined and polished, itsCracks papered with dollar bills.In the street, parades -Crisp uniforms on scarred menLives swept away by shells areTombed under smooth roads.A woman crying at the barrier isCornered by denial -His rough hands buffet herBackwards into memoryWhen other men cameAnd killed her brother.For her, the world whispersDeafeningly in chorusAnd shadow-peopleAlmost brush her clothesStealing her voice to leaveTerrified whimpers.u

u

u

Submissions + QUERIES:

editors@hillmag.com

u

Submissions + QUERIES:

editors@hillmag.com

The Hill would like to thank Varsity Publications, Churchill College, Clare Hall, and our readership for their financial support, without which this issue could not have been produced.Our thanks also goes to The Cambridge Union who have exhibited many of the artists we have featured .

PHOTOGRAPHers

u Lizzie Robinsonu Helen Holmesu Katie Nairneu Lale Arikogluu James Marchu Andrew Spyrouu Zing Tsjengu Emily Vermontu Kate Rileyu Grace Lawson- Conqueru Dylan Spencer- Davidsonu Katherine Watersu Meg Wiseu Patrick Kingsleyu Tom Tyldesley

ARTists

n Alex Farnsworthn David Shillinglawn Katie Nairnen James Sheddenn Alicky Ashbyn Richard Fairheadn Joe Halligann Denis Kolesnikovn Joel //Millerchipn Andrew Spyroun Brishty Alamn Sam Peetn Barry Clarkn Rich //Foe Designn Anna Trenchn Lizzie Williamsn Alex Woodhead

WRITErs

Helen ParkerOkey NzeluElodie Olsen- CoonsWill Warman

Lucy Boyes Tristan Withers

Pascal PorcheronShuchen XiangDecca MuldowneyLouisa DinwiddieEmma HoganJohn DevlinSophie Peacock

Tamar van Gelderen

Web-Design: Matt HendersonBusiness: Anna Herber

Layout & Design: Andrew Spyrou