Icarus

Icarus showed that not all students at Saint Matthias were drunken idlers, (well not all the time anyway). It was a serious, well produced journal that gave an opportunity to show the range of literary and artistic talent that we had. Poetry, Literary Criticism, Theatre Reviews and Short Stories made up the bulk of each issue along with arty photographs and pictures of artwork. I have decided for the present to restrict extracts to poetry, as these make easy reading from a web page. In future I may get round to typing up some of the longer pieces of prose and providing a link for downloading. I hope, to use Tony Garland's words, that this will broaden the scope of the site somewhat.

ICARUS Vol.1 No.1 Edited by Edward Malins, Jeremy Mulford, Gordon Strong and Dick Peppin

11.11.68 Tony Garland Standing above a grave, Solemn and in reverence, Absorbed by feelings, Touched by the proximity Of a lost friend. He stands beside me Reading the inscription 'Charles Angel Desire Briand' He laughs, hollow but lifelike, "What is in a name, my son?" Crying softly, Hidden by the drizzle, I reply, "An eternity, grandfather". "Why are you crying my son?" "Because you gave so much And I was too young to return The love you gave me." "Don't cry, the satisfaction was enough, You were young I old. When you are older you'll know. The young have no time, To give, To receive, To know The tortures of simplicity Of an ageing mind." "Thank you grandfather." "Why, my son?" "I don't know. I am lost, Needing a shoulder For my life." "Take mine son." I was left alone. Was it a dream? I knelt shamefully And placed a poppy from my lapel Below the marble headstone. "Thank you", I muttered. Suddenly seeming out of place In the jungle of headstones, I ran away.

 

FOR EDWARD Laurie Watson Take each frame of reference and your set of symbols, Each with multiple meaning. Upend your decanter Of allusions and trace the spreading words Upon the page. The witch hunt has begun. "Here is his sexual frustration condensed Into a metaphor," the symbols cymballised To perfect clash. " The cry from the heart is to be found In Ecclesiastes, of course," among unrelated brothers. If complexity's reduced to single thread, Why weave the net again? Let simple things be simply said, Nor probe too deep the poet's head, But let the words remain.

EARLY ONE MORNING Tim Meagher Frost to lace the panes this November morning. Little light to illustrate the silkiness of her hair tumbling as far as the breasts that lift then move freely with an effortless bow (almost a gesture) as she collects her clothes from the floor. A sweet song to abstract the cold This November morning. A song that turns to little ululations as, with the ceremony of cold water introducing a delicate dance night is washed from the lentive limbs Warmly clothed against the cold wind outside she plants a kiss then waves one from the door along with the promise to cook my supper if I provide the jug of wine. Tim Meagher

ICARUS Vol.3 No.1 Editorial Team, Alan Crang, Peter Lavender, Edward Malins, Julie woods, Chris Meechan, Alan Sopp, Mike Bushell, Diana Newton and Mary Darby.

AUTUMN IN CHELTENHAM AND SOME OTHERS...by Chris Parker. A leaf detatched from the Christmas lights, and swooped over our heads in the wind. Multiplied it became a russet crust at our feet, Which it was most pleasant to scuffle through. With the dormousecouples we wandered in the wind, isolated in our company, sniffing at shop windows glowing in their promise of giving. Brush, match, amber, sweet smoking bonfire, Drifting over the fields in the mist At twilight...incence red. Waiting room stove, parcelled long red nightie, Drifting through the fields in the smoke Taking it all home...head in my lap.

TO THE CHAPLAIN UPON HIS BEING ASKED WHAT LITURGICAL HUE HE WOULD ASSUME ON OCTOBER THE FIRST K.D.Smith "Will Father wear white for St.Remigius?" (Thus the inquiry litigious). For such a Confessor And bishop (though lesser) Will Father wear White? Would Father wear green for St.Patrick? (With his triune clover-leaf hat-trick). For serpents all vanished And Baalim banished Would Father wear Green? Will Father wear out at St.Matthias? (As it sheds its ecclesical bias). While all of society Winks at dubiety Will Father wear Out?

monday /tuesday Julie Woods the green day gave me a leaf which grew into my flesh tumbled round my head while laughter lifted floating love for those i had not seen since the year had come leaf green you lost followed on through rain shades over city streets i chased to evening when i left for shelter and familiar shapes of amber to greet me at my midnight window on the hill i came to meet the night without the memory happy that one leaf had settled in the poetry of those i know from pages now a part of me after sleeping i will trace the dew when virgin hours reveal their weeping to the clifton trees guarding the morning river and retrieve the greenest leaf i see for you

A VISITATION Jennifer Harris Pathetic roses climbing up their paper sky Damp-spotted with some green excrescences; A rusty saucepan still upon the stove, The ochred papers, brittle as their news. Where now the Jacobean servant girl Red bony hands cold-clumsy in the dawn? The black-toothed mother huddled at the hob Recalling children dead before they lived? Where the young subaltern? And further back The branded boy, still witless from the flame? No kettles spurting for Victorian tea, No pious samplers placid on the walls; No smug-faced spotted dogs, no stag at bay. A fretted tap drips, intermittently. Along the walls the grass grows shoulder-high And willow herb, extravagantly pink; The dandelion achenes skim along, The lettuces go quietly to seed.