Cover by J. H. Paling, M.6 C
|Teaching Staff||The Blue Tit|
|The Albion Press||Unicorn|
|Hot Pants||The Silent Fortress|
|Towards Metrication||I Sat on the Hill|
|Thunder Rock||Colours of a Summers Day|
|Becket (School Play)||Creation|
|German Trip to Boppard||A Tiger Walked|
|Assisi||Waste Land Revisited|
|The Dragon||Snow Blanket|
|The Indian Moon Moth||Colphon|
DOVER GRAMMAR SCHOOL FOR BOYS
Headmaster R. C. Colman, M.A.
Deputy Headmaster T. S. Walker, B.Sc.
T. E. Archer, M.A.
E. J. Bayley, N.D.D., A.T.D.
K. F. Best, F.R.C.O., A.R.C.M.
I. W. Bird, B.A.
J. A. Bradbury, B.A.
S. Brooks, Dept. of Education Teachers' Cert
K. H. Carter, B.A., F.R.S.A.
A. E. Coulson, A.R.C.Sc., B.Sc.
R. J. Crisp, St. Luke's Diploma in P.E.
J. Cunnington, B.A.
A. D. F. Dale, M.A.
B. W. Denham, B.Sc.
C. B. Dicks, M.A.
A. O. Elliott, Carnegie Diploma in P.E.
M. J. Fry, M.A.
D. W. Hagell, B.Sc.
Mrs. P. J. Harling, Dept. of Educ. Tchrs' Cert.
N. S. Horne, B.A.
N. Illger, B.A.
W. H. Jacques, M.A.
J. H. Jenkin, M.A., F.R.C.O., L.R.A.M.
Rev. W. F. Kemp
A. J. Knowles, B.Sc.
W. G. King, D.Se. (Eeon) , B.Com.
E. C. Large, Handicraft Teachers' Diploma
J. F. Marriott, B.A.
R. P. H. Mermagen, M.A., M.A, (U.S.A.)
R. W. Murphy, M.A.
D. C. Page, B.Sc., A.R.I.C.
R. H. Payne, B.D.
P. Piddock, B.Sc.
M. E. Quick, M.A.
J. B. Quinn, B.Sc.
Mrs. F. A. Rogers, B.A.
K. H. Ruffell, B.A.
P. Salter, B.A.
K. N. Schultis, M.Sc. (U.S.A.)
H. Seeds, B.A.
N. A. Slater, M.A.
M. H. Smith, Handicraft Teaehers' Diploma
M. J. Styles, Dept. of Educ. Teachers' Cert.
C. Templeman, Dept. of Educ. Teachers' Cert.
R. Wake, B.sc.
R. N. Woollett, B.A.
Rev. E. H. Yates, M.A.
The Albion Press
The most prominent feature of the Printing
Office in recent months has undoubtedly been the Albion Press which Astor
Secondary School have very kindly made available to us on extended loan. Of all
the hand operated platen presses suitable for artists to use for
printmaking. and fine quality limited edition purposes the Albion is
probably most familiar. although such presses arc no longer made and are now regarded as antiques many fine
specimens in varying sizes, arc still
to be seen in Art Schools and Print Studies where they can often prove
invaluable. 'Our' press was made in 1887 and since acquiring it we have
reconditioned it; rumour has it, however, that it may yet compete in the London to
Brighton Old Crocks Rally.
Incidentally did you know that the first man, to bring printing from moveable type to England, William Caxton, was a Kentish man (or was he a man of Kent?)? He was born in Tenterden.
Regarding the inadequacies of the School's central heating Mr. M. J. Fry was heard to remark that in the labs "we are fortunate because we can always fall back on the bunsens."
There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence,
Upon a crooked stile,
There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked 1.6093 kilometres,
He found a crooked 2.5 newpence,
Upon a crooked stile,
Give him an inch and he'll take a yard.
Give him 2.54 centimetres and he'll take 0.9144 metres.
A miss is as good as a mile.
A miss is as good as 1.6093 kilometres.
'Full fathom five my father lies'
'Full 1.8288 metres five my father lies'
Half a pound of twopenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle.
250 grams of 1 newpence rice,
256 grams of treacle,
A 10 gallon hat.
A 45.460 litres hat.
He hides his light under a bushel.
He hides his light under 3.637 dekalitres
Frottage by A. Barnes, 2 Astor
We apologize for the late arrival of
this, the second part of "Pharos", but as you know, this is the first
year that it
has been printed entirely at the school,
and we have had to meet many problems that
we have never previously had to encounter. Our deepest gratitude is to Mrs. J.
Saunders for doing the typing, and
to the Art Deparmtent for working so steadily to the design this issue Everyone
has had to work within the limitations set by this new format, and as every
artist knows, the best work often emerges when
limits are provided. We have all had to
feel our way with this unorthodox shape, and
I hope you like the result.
Finally, thanks must go to the people that provided the poems, essays, reviews, drawings, and all the substance of this magazine, for "Pharos" belongs to the school, and it is only right that members of the school should be its contributors.
Pen and Ink Drawing by R. C. Peters, 1 Park
Dover Grammar School Dramatic Society-
Autumn Term 1969
Robert Ardrey's play 'Thunder Rock' was first produced in London in the early days of the last war. Although bombs had yet to fall on the city it was an uneasy period haunted by the memories of aggressive ways in Abyssinia, Spain and China and menaced by the threat that the war in Europe would soon engulf the world. It seemed then, in the words of the Play, that 'the world was hell-bent for destruction'.
Thirty years later, with the 'advance' in atomic and biological warfare, it is all too evident that the menace of global self destruction has yet to be averted and the message of the play is as apt today as it was in the 1940's. The actors' appreciation of the significance of the play was evident in their sincere rendering and their sincerity ensured a live attentive audience throughout the run.
The play is set inside a lighthouse on Lake Michigan where Robert Ardrey brings together Streeter, a supply plane pilot and Charleston, the lighthouse keeper, friends of long acquaintance. Streeter has decided to quit the lighthouse service to fight against the aggressors in China without 'a Chinaman's chance of survival', but Charleston, previously a news reporter, unable to see a solution to world problems, feels that he can no longer continue as a 'professional spectator' and withdraws from the strife to the solitude of the lighthouse. Here he becomes deeply involved in the recreation of the 1849 immigrants who in that year were wrecked on the rocks near to the lighthouse. There imaginary 'Forty-Niners' become as real to him as living persons, and in re-creating their characters he at last begins to understand his own. From them he learns that they had given up the struggle too soon. He resolves to fight, 'not for fightings sake, but to make a new world out of the old'.
Considering the limitations of a small stage the play was well set. A spiral staircase descending from the flies is in itself dramatic, but credit must go mainly to the set designers, who-by cunning utilisation of existing standard material, much of it very old, had managed to create the illusion of the confined spaciousness of a tall building. One is inclined to think of a lighthouse in black and white, but the scenic artist's use of warm tones and sharp contrasts proved to be entirely appropriate to the play and the impact of the set was, if anything heightened by the elimination of superfluous detail.
Much depended on lighting, and whilst this was well handled for the dramatic moments of the play, it seemed a little too 'flat out' for what must essentially have: been a dim interior scene. With the switchboard fully loaded the opportunity of illuminating the profile of the lighthouse and of showing evening light through the windows was lost.
The First Act, largely concerned with setting the background fop the play, introduced the 'real life' characters, Streeter, the pilot. Charleston the lightkeeper, Inspector Flanning of the Lighthouse Service and Nonny a helper.
Andrew Vardon as Planning was emphatic and easily audible whilst Richard Hall as
Nonny confined his remarks almost entirely to 'Yes Sorr' in ambiguous accent and provided the humour of the scene. Peter Wheeler as Streeter was self-assured, but his American phrases where at first inaudible since the action required him to talk out through the tabs and habit caused him to deliver too many lines to the stage floor. Tony Russell as Charleston was at first the more convincing 'American'. Gradually one became accustomed to the American accent and audibility improved and Streeter's and Charleston's confident easy relaxed acting took us through their long dialogue to the end of the scene in close attention. The entrance of Captain Joshua at the end of the scene marked the transition from the real to Charlston's imaginary world.
Ian Goldup as Captain Joshua Stuart had also become Americanised, and right through the play he gave us a restrained and entirely convincing performance, as also did John Kitchiner as Briggs. The latter's Midlands accent was good and his movement assured. He had worked hard on his part, with considerable attention to detail. In background 'listening' parts he at times distracted attention from major lines, notably those of Kurtz.
Graham Lusted as Dr. Kurtz; built up his character slowly and was one of the few actors to demonstrate a marked difference in character between Charleston's first conception of the 'Land O'Lakss' passengers and his revised interpretation after Captain Joshua' surging that '---- these people weren't this way'.
Caroline Watts as Miss Kirby gave a lively interpretation of a 'silly and shallow' suffragette in her opening scenes, but did not quite manage to create the sympathetic figure required for the 'true people' of Joshua's ship's company.
Elaine Watson as Anne Marie, Kurtz wife, filled a minor part well in scenes dominated by an emphatic husband and dynamic daughter. Their Viennese accent was well maintained without loss of audibility and the family link was well established.
Sorrel Martin as Melanie Kurtz was throughout a most pleasing character. Her part required no abrupt change of character as did those of the other passengers, and in this sense was less demanding. Nevertheless her assurance of speech, ease of movement and indefinable stage-awareness left no doubt of her ability as an actress. By the last act she had established a character of such appeal that her final scene was deeply moving.
That leaves Michael Jones as Chang, the Chinese gunner. In his own single word of English, Chang was 'Okay'!
The producer, John Jenkin, is to be congratulated not only for his choice of play and the selection of a highly competent staff of actors, make up men and back room boys, but, more important, for his unobtrusive direction which resulted in excellent grouping and a smooth flowing movement rarely found in school plays.
Altogether a difficult play for young actors, very well handled indeed with an unexpectedly good command of the audience.
We went to look at a school play. We were given theatre.
E & M.L
Linocut by P. Ashwell, M.6 C
Chanel number five waning in the vicinity of
Westminster, cardiac blues popped in a
Spray of translucent bubbles,
Stricken features, leadshot bowels,
A Lichtenstein bedraggled round a
Pink thin still dreamlike object,
New tights splattered with the
Gore of centuries:
Tears, drop cold vast slow young clear
A little virgin gone,
A monstrous diesel wrapped
Quite lovingly around a
Concrete object (no relations)
While her body is
done away with.
CHRIS DENCH. L6C.
by Jean Anouilh
|KING HENRY II OF ENGLAND||John Kitchiner|
|THOMAS BECKET||Ian Goldup|
|ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY||Mark Errington|
|BISHOP OF OXFORD||James Sherrell|
|BISHOP OF YORK||Steven Pocock|
|GILBERT FOLLIOT. Bishop of London||Peter Wheeler|
|FIRST BARON||Raymond Perkins|
|SECOND BARON William of Corbeil||Oliver Sansum|
|THIRD BARON Provost Marshal||Nigel Hall|
|FOURTH BARON Regnault||David Smith|
|LITTLE MONK||Anthony Warr|
|1ST SERVANT||Christopher Bulow|
|2ND SERVANT||Nicholas Clary|
|QUEEN MOTHER||Roger Cornish|
|YOUNG QUEEN||Mark Hawkins-Moseling|
|PRINCE HENRY||Julian Woolhouse|
|OTHER PRINCE||David Ockenden|
|KING LOUIS OF FRANCE||Graham Lusted|
|THE POPE||Richard Gill|
Linocut from Brass-rubbing by J. H. Paling, M.6 C
German Trip to Boppard
|Free day||-||Do as you're told|
|School Uniform||-||Pink shirts|
|Opportunity for walks||-||Forced route march|
|Coach trip||-||Mobile solo session|
|Boat trip||-||Mountain climbing|
|Visit to any castle||-||Mountain climbing|
The brochure stated, "there will be an opportunity for walks into the hills
Boppard". Eight miles, five blisters and one broken umbrella later, I staggered
back to our hotel, a shattered man. And this was only the second day! What, I
wondered, had I let myself in for?
I was soon to find out. During the following five days, driven on by our leader, quickly christened Der Führer and obviously a devotee of the German tradition of physical fitness and Kultur, we visited every place of local interest (and many that weren't) and trod every foot of the previously mentioned hills behind Boppard.
Not that I wish to give the impression that it was all hard work. There were parties, girls and gaming sessions although these seemed to be exclusively organised for the boys with adults never being invited to take part. Naturally these activities were a constant drain on the boy's financial resources and visions of supplementary benefits drifted through their minds (and mine) when rumour had it that Mr. Denham owned a private car hire firm in Boppard. Alas, these hopes were quickly dashed when it was discovered that DIZ was simply the local registration.
But who wants parties and other frivolities when there is Marksburg Castle, the Roman Amphitheatre, Cathedral and Porta Nigra in Trier, the Greek Chapel in Wiesbaden, the Brömserburg Museum and Niederwald Denkmal in Rüdesheim and the Church of St. Castor (the patron saint of sugar) in Koblenz.
Fortunately there were two visits right up my strasse, one to the champagne firm of Söhnlein in Wiesbaden and one to the famous brandy distillery of Asbach Uralt in Rüdesheim. (I'd never heard of it before either). Perhaps the latter was the more memorable as liberal samples were offered to the adults, the boys being debarred from taking part by German law.
Pen and Ink by P. Barnacle, 1 Park
On a more serious note, because it is a very serious subject, the food
throughout our holiday was excellent, even the Bockwurst, which was eyed
somewhat apprehensively by most of us, disappeared without trace. The Hotel
Rheinvilla which, in a moment of weakness,
had agreed to take our party, was first class. It was perhaps unfortunate that
their discotheque, which normally operated in the cellar, was out of order,
having been under water in the recent floods. This discovery was greeted by
audible sighs of dismay from the boys
equalled only by the audible sighs of relief
from the adults. .
Now three months later, partially recovered in wind and limb and finally free of corn plasters, I can appreciate what a wonderful holiday it was. I'm sure the boys would join with me in thanking Mr. Salter and Mr. Denham for their efforts on our behalf. Whilst I may never be the same person again, given the opportunity, I would willingly repeat the experience.
B. A. HARRISON.
The sun begins to set over the hot, brown,
dust roofs on the lush grassy hill.
The bells begin to chime and the men cease their toil.
An entombed body lies peacefully sleeping in a lower tomb,
while people file by and peer through the incense gloom,
A fireball sun over a country of rolling
breasts sinks down to light some other
A swallow returns to its nest under a buttress calls an "Agnus" for the reposing incorruption and state of a dead nun's body
which people worship through a gate.
While streaks of angry red weal through a golden sky a man closes a leaky stable.
The last bus goes back to Ferugia and leaves the town to God.
The caressing sun touches two churches' domes and Francesco and Chiara are again alone.
Frottage by S. O'Regan, 2 Astor
The above graphic under the umbrella says:- STOP PRESS Our thanks are due to Denis Weaver Ltd. Bob Staples and the Craft Department for their generous help with this publication. Ed
O you playful fellow
tumbling, sliding-and swimming,
How you intrigue me.
You are such a streamlined piece of fur,
Catching fish who are unaware you are even there:
Eating eels, frogs, the like.
Perhaps when you were a cub
you didn't like the water,
Perhaps you were
pushed, coaxed and tempted,
but then when you went.
You (like a dog) took to it.
But now you are getting
you have to get your food,
You don't have time for play,
or even time for teaching
The arts and skills
All Otters should know!
There he sleeps,
Mailed in glittering ice,
His scales sheathed in tenfold strength,
His slumbering bulk of basalt carved,
Folded wings like ebon sails,
Tail like a hammer of jet,
Claws like scimitars of steel.
From his glowing nostrils curl threads of smoke
Spiralling up to the heights of his cave
To crystallize there in columns of black ice,
In traceries and pillars
As cold and dark as the frozen night.
Ancalagon the Black of the North is he.
He awakes -
His glistening armour vanishes in a mist;
The heat is growing,
The cave is melting, steaming;
His snout flickers shots of flame,
The furnaces within rumble and roar, and gather their power -
The Fire bursts forth.
White hot flames rage through the hall of stone,
Rocks flash in fiery death;
He laughs, and boulders melt.
Rivers of fire sear through the reeking smoke,
Blasting the dying night into incandescent sparks.
He spreads his wings, in a whirlwind of power,
They blaze with sheets
of living flame -
And like a bolt of fire, a meteor,
Ancalagon the Black swoops down from the North.
R. PHILLIPS. 4W
Centre Page photograph by P. J. King, M.6 K
The Indian Moon Moth
Ah! is that a noise coming from that pupa,
There it goes again and look
It's writhing and wiggling and suddenly
From the top appears a head and a pair of depleted wings.
After a final writhe you contort and are free from your home that you have lived in for many months.
You struggle along and come to a twig,
You feel relieved and climb to dry your wings.
Your life has begun Indian Moon Moth.
Indian Moon Moth hanging from a twig;
Your magnificent yellow, dazzling forewings
With a circular semi-transparent disc enchant me.
Your huge black eyes seem to stare at me,
And your stubby fern-like antennae which twitch at any slightest movement.
Your body, long, segmented, fluffy and pure white
Gives you a fascinating sleekness.
When you fly you surprise me;
You can't fly straight only zig-zag.
And you are so clumsy.
You flap your wings back and forth but so irregularly.
Your movement is jerky and you don't appear to see where you are going.
Indian Moon Moth you are so deceiving.
Your little brown eggs, like small dried peas,
All laid in a cluster.
And then, very unmotherly you leave them, never to return.
You fly away, your long iridescent streamer-like tails flapping behind you.
Why Indian Moon Moth are you so deceiving?
You must be tired Indian Moon Moth,
You have been on the wing for many days;
And you are getting old.
Indian Moon Moth, you are flying to a sheltered spot called paradise.
You have had a good life Indian Moon Moth!!
I HOWARD. 3Y
|Pencil and Ink Drawing by C. Newman, 1 Park|
Your steps look as though
|Pen and Ink Drawing by P. Lightman, 3 F|
The Blue Tit
Oh: Blue Tit
How your' plumage fascinates me.
With your blue night-cap and your yellow breast,
Your green cloak and your black eye mask.
You look like a highwayman.
How you swing upside down in the trees,
And eat the peanuts that
Are hung up for you.
You see some pears in a tree,
So you swoop down and peck at them.
You are a highwayman.
|Design produced by a harmonograph made in the school workshop|
Through the misty forest, the trees slanting against each other, an animal
galloped towards the twilight fresh-water
ocean. The breeze blew blue leaves down the avenues of stately trees and bowed the
The animal was a unicorn, galloping slowly, and with long strides, throwing up earth and gouging furrows in the soft turfs with its hooves. On it galloped in this alien world, as far away as from here to yesterday.
The unicorn turned onto a broad spit of shiny silver sand and delicately picked its way to the water's edge. There she (the unicorn was a mare) sniffed delicately at the white water, then lapped away steadily and at the same time scratched her flank with a rear leg.
The creature was four feet high at the shoulder, and a delicate creamy white faintly
tinged with blue. Her mane was pure dazzling white, and fell like foam down her neck and on either side of her ivory and sapphire horn. Her eyes were lambent and deep.
Turning her head, she inclined her horn down and polished it vigorously against the thick pile of her velvet side.
Suddenly her ears pricked up. Turning she heard a hunting horn, and caught sight of a party of men and gay women riding towards her. Turning, she ran, on the sand, sinking to her fetlocks in it. Then she turned off into the forest: a swarm of birds, like hail, bounced up out of a tree, startled by her presence. Behind her came the. relentless crash of splintering foliage as the heavy horses trampled after her.
Coming to a thick hedge she hurdled it: once over, she lurched in the soft mud behind it, staggered and fell forward. Sudden pain, as an arrow lodged in her shoulder with a splash of spurting scarlet blood.
Then up again and on, running through a vivid streak of pain, flaming with vertiginous agony.
She crashed against a tree again, pained and bewildered. Her shoulder ached, and from behind her came a thread of woman's laughter. She reared, ran, rocking as she did. But it was no good. Ebbing strength flowed from her. Death was near, yet still her only instinct was to run. She could do nothing else. Ferns collapsed under the ivory splinters of her hoofs. Flowers were torn, and she left behind a sickly sweet perfumed path.
Finally she rampaged into a green leafy dome. Cathedral-like silent, with beams of gold slanting down through the foliage, the place possessed holiness and a serene beauty. The unicorn turned, at rest at last, head arching proudly, then fell to the ground like a burst balloon as two more arrows bit deeply into her neck. The unicorn was now extinct.
M. COURT. 4W
The Silent Fortress
The silent sheen sea whispers
through the dark, ethereal harbour walls. The piers project brazenly into the
shadows and in their turn add their voice to the harmony of the wailing waste.
A small boat glistens out of the port, the men going fishing in the cold night air. The harbour walls face the shore in Alcatraz fullness and solidity. We are enclosed.
The free-born seagull whines its unseen note over the massive walls and glides to the shore to face the wilderness from whence it flew with the fickle breeze.
A silent moon floats on the sea. It watches its face broken in the ebbing tide. Over all, the harsh castle walls stand proud, their turret eyes surveying the silent mystery.
Ships lie dormant in the dying freshness of the sombre night and think on the morrow's voyage through the fortress of the harbour.
Then a reluctant sun begins to appear over the dark masses of the looming walls and lights the path of the small boat with its chapped-faced fishermen returning through the now grey, functional, harbour.
Soon it will again be dark, and we shall be imprisoned once more.
I Sat on the Hill
I sat on the hill, thinking
Blue above meets Green Brown Grey and Black on the other side of the valley.
The grey is a 20 storey building, dotted with white and blue.
Moving, Ant-like; in size.
Carrying, throwing, lifting, heaving and running
The result is movement. Movement in time.
Suddenly everything spins. Grey meets Blue in a mass of movement.
The result is movement
All in time, together.
The centre is time. The ruling Factor is time.
Gradually the spin stops and the scene is set
Green Fields, wooden houses, tools and fighting implements
Catapults, spears, bows and arrows
People fighting, fire and crime, all in time.
Then a castle appears. Grey
Spin again. Time span.
Madly and Furiously.
Then it was braked by an invisible hand a common enemy:
Now a winter world, steel hard and white.
And Blue on the; Horizon as the sun sets.
The castle appears. Noble, proud and majestic
As the mist swirls around its Moats.
No cars, No wires
No drugs, No crime
All in time, a utopia.
But the snow Blankets all spin once.
A white spin.
Undulating, back to the, present and the grey and the Blue and the Mud and the Blood.
MARTIN WEST 3Y
|Design produced by a harmonograph made in the school workshop|
a ripple on the stellar field,
(a muffled cry, your birth,
your departure, a wake of exquisite saffron
that dies in the morn of an indifferent eternity)
I hear your silence,
feel your solitary pain,
- the pristine sentience.
A. P. SMITH. M6D
Colours of a Summers Day
Red time of sundown,
of dust in the West, and pink tinged clouds.
Time for reflection,
time of relaxation.
Orange time of sunrise.
Pale gelatinous morning glow.
Time of awakening and birdsong,
beginning of life and day
Yellow time of noonday,
hot sun and small shadows.
Dry time. Existence time.
Little action and little thought.
Green time of dew and early sun.
Time for life refreshed,
time for after sleep life.
Thankful time, fast time.
Blue time in afternoon,
time of work and warmth.
Sad colour and time without feeling.
Time of expectation.
Indigo time of darkness and night.
Time, of night street noises,
and pinprick holes of light in the sky.
Time for resting.
Violet time, thunderous stormy sky,
broken by jagged shafts of light.
Heavy time, humid time,
time of fright and sorrow.
MARK ERRINGTON 5P
Linocut by M. Amos, M 6
I was born from eyes of owlets, hard upon the
Sand, I hear the bellow of the sea around,
Cold contempt poured frenzy in my time,
Poor sweat tied pullets in my throat.
To the west a plum tends oval
Lozenge sadness in a soil, four grown nectars
Blend a bold nebulous stream
upon the semiconsciousness of mind.
CHRIS DENCH L6C
Out of the dolce chords.
Beauty self refining
I caught a little restrained
Rising passage, in thirds it must be,
So intrinsically lovely, so pure
And I knew it was the very
Essence of my love.
Out of this passage I
Fabricated a dream, furnished it
With loving care,
Organised it deliciously
To produce a complete and
The culmination of a new experience
Out of a timeless piece
Of real feeling.
CHRIS DENCH. L6C
|Pen and Ink Drawing by S. Imbert, 1 Park|
A Tiger Walked
Silently, stealthily he walked
His body tense and quivering
He lay in wait for his quarry
To come into view.
The scrub parted,
His intent flaming eyes
Watching every movement,
Contemplating every animal.
Suddenly his stored energy was released
Strong legs drove him forward
Bound after bound
Charging this way and that among the herd
A giant leap and his strong claws,
Gripped the back of a frenzied animal.
With a scream of pain it fell
Crashing to the earth.
CHRIS. MOODY 2PK
Pencil and Ink Drawing by R. Stevenson, M. 6
Waste Land Revisited.
Smoke belches out of a tall, black chimney,pumping its seminal smog into the already thickened air.
I sit at my seat waiting for the train to move and look at this sight of civilization.
Over Chelsea Bridge he had said,
so I walked over, depressed, wary,
and saw the Pleasure Gardens
entrance on my right.
I did not go in, but re-crossed the ebbing Thames and asked a man the way.
"How do you get to Ecclestone square?"
"You walk" he said. Funny.
"Third set of lights, turn right, then left."
Inside, a bearded man cracked jokes and said it was nothing to worry about.
It wasn't. Simon Ward smoked Benson and Hedges.
Richard II was his favourite play.
30 or 40 places, thanks for coming.
Italian or Indian today?
"La Polio", "La Buon Antica"
Dusky faced waiter in dusky interior comes.
Spike Milligan asks you what you want.
"Lamb Madras, puree, pulao rice, thanks."
Very nice, goodbye
Back to old place of work.
Makes a change doesn't it?
Nice to see you again.
So you can come up again then?
Yes, this holiday.
Good. And your friend?
For longer than I can.
Lovely. I'll write soon.
Hello, find Farringdons?
Any good bargains?
Great. See you.
The smoke belches out the chimney.
I have visited the Waste Land again.
(The smoke belches out the chimney)
. . . . . . . . .it's tiring isn't it?
(The smoke belches out the chimney)
(The smoke belches out. . . . . .
Belches. . . . . .
The. . .. .)
Peter Wheeler U6
written, and illustrated with wood engravings, by J.Paling. M6C
Amidst the buttresses, pinnacles and statues that constitute a Gothic cathedral, another form of stone carving exists; the gargoyles and grotesques.
Though far rarer in England than on the Continent. they may still be seen if looked for. Apart from providing a refreshing
æsthetic contrast to the
austere beneficial nature of the religious statues, the gargoyles have a purely
physical function. They transport the rainwater from the roof guttering and, by
virtue of their elongated 'bodies,' throw it wet! clear of the walls. Their
origin can he found in classical buildings such as those in Pompeii, where the
gargoyles took the form of lions heads.
The gargoyles of the Middle Ages, however, are of an entirely different character, being in the form of a grotesque beast or bird sitting haunched on a cornice moulding. Unfortunately grotesques are often confused with gargoyles which they superficially resemble. Living up to their title, they appeal as grinning goblins, hideous monsters. demons etc.
The famous Chimeres of Notre Dame de Paris sit above the main portal as do the creatures before the throne of God in the Book of Revelation. Apart from the obvious physical hideousness, one is led to believe they have some spiritual function or message to convey, in keeping with the spiritual transcendence that the Gothic age fought to achieve. But they will remain an enigma until they crumble, for their true ethereal function departed with their creators, the stone masons, over seven centuries ago.
Young boughs bending.
Showering a blanket of Snow.
Some feet slipping
Old men falling
The perfect blanket of Snow.
Small dogs chasing.
Cold hands aching.
Car chains crunching
Through the blanket of Snow
Young birds crying
Some birds dying.
Old ewes struggling
Cold lambs snuggling.
Spring bulbs peeping
Beneath a blanket of Snow
Roof tops clearing
Soft snow slipping
Farewell to the blanket of Snow.
D. STAFFORD (3D)
This magazine has been printed
by means of letterpress
in the Art Department of
Dover Grammar School for Boys
in an edition of 800