Stock image: RedEye

Drum Drum Beating – Poem by Katherine Bennett

Muffled but heavy, the drums play an unsteady beat

Although it is the thing that that keeps me on my feet, a reward for each time I breathe

My chest it quakes, it aches of uncertainty

Of unreliability

It hums as it drums. A buzz in the distance, that is three inches deep inside my ribs, the power generator servicing me below the surface

It beats there in its place, shaking, close to breaking as it thumps awake each beat

A glass chandelier almost smashing, a block of ice that is cracking

It doesn’t hurt it just sits, waiting, hovering, unfading

Its loudness grows quiet over time, losing focus, but time to time it growls back like thunder

An earthquake, a storm that showers metal.

Terrifyingly unapologetic, remorseless

I am walking on a tight rope, trembling

The weak muscles are in my heart and not my legs. Why do they feel so numb? Why am I so fragile?

The balance is the lungs themselves, as I breathe every breath with contempt, not quite regret

Pulling oxygen into my veins, against the struggle of the heart

My heart, red and bloody and always beating, contrasting the feeing of the block of ice, that it is

My heart is my humanity?

It doesn’t feel so trustworthy, it doesn’t feel like my sanity

It is an isolation that is suffocating me

Often, I even feel angry, but I push those feelings away, and breathe

And when the beats fade, the furnace inside me does too, the unwanted irate hotness that makes me want to heave

The stress and the sweat and dizzy head

I yearn to hear the silence from the drums that are always drum drum drumming

I swallow as my chest tightens

The continuum of palpitations

My solution, conclusion, stop breathing

I try to remind myself that I am alive not only because I am breathing

I am just a state of being, I am existing, despite it

I won’t stop breathing, but if I did, the drum would stop it’s banging.

One held breath away

My heart won’t stop beating. Drum drum beati-

By Lima Munni

Image by JamesDeMers from Pixabay

For my module Making Memory: Culture, History and Representation we looked at the slave narrative. We specifically looked at a famous memoir called 12 Years a Slave written by an African American abolitionist and author called Solomon Northup. A memoir that discusses his life when he got kidnapped and tricked to go to Washington D.C and sold into the Deep South.

I watched the film adaptation on Netflix. In all honesty, it took me the whole day to watch. The film was in fact unbelievably disturbing and sickening to watch. In class, we looked at specific scenes to unpack our own thoughts and opinions of 12 Years a Slave. We looked at the scene where ‘Plat’ (Solomon) is hung up on a tree. He is surrounded by no one else; they were just doing their slave work.

Lucy in class asked us what our thoughts on this scene was. I said it was very sickening to watch because everyone was just ignoring Plat being hung up on a tree, with his neck being strangled tight with blood dripping down his heck and onto the grass. Lucy agreed that it was in fact sickening to watch however the people who saw Plat suffering like that knew what the consequences were if they go out to help. ‘It is full of traumatic images that are in fact crushed from national memory’ (Smith’s reviews). The film indeed educates people about slavery, and the importance of Black Lives Matter.

However, a very intense aspect of the film for me was when Plat kept saying ‘his name is Solomon’ and the whites didn’t care. I felt extremely annoyed when they kept calling all slaves ‘nigga.’ That is extremely rude to call a black person that. I hated Tibeats behaviour, he did not listen to Plat once when he was suggesting an alternative to the cutting of trees and Tibeats didn’t care. He just kept calling Plat ‘nigga.’

The film remains true to Northup’s decision to stay on the plantation until he was ‘legally’ able to free himself but ignores the many people who consistently did whatever it took to escape enslavement: “Notwithstanding the certainty of being captured, the woods and swamps are, nevertheless continually filled with runaways,” the memoir tells us (Solomon Northup, 12 Years a Slave, 1854). Carol Boyce Davies says that 12 Years a Slave graphic is overwhelming – it largely presents complicit black women, singing and picking cotton or cowering in fear.

I also felt a huge tension when a Patsey was separated from her child and kept crying about it. Epps was completely ignorant and only cared about them being enslaved. Being held bondage in Louisiana is absolutely torture, an ordeal to remember for life. The scene that was very disturbing and extremely traumatic is when Patsey is raped by her owner Epps. This was the hardest scene to watch. The two were in a dark room and she had no way out.

Francesca Chiari

In the past couple of years, the entertainment industry has seen a rise in pieces of media that aim to change the narrative of famous women in history; from Greta Gerwig’s Little Women to Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla, our society is acknowledging how history has been patronized to fit a narrative that glorified men and often left women’s stories untold. 

An acclaimed piece that does this is Maisie Peters’s new album The Good Witch. Despite The Good Witch has been described by many as a breakup album, there is much more to it than romance or heartbreak. Peters has crafted a layered and intense tale through fifteen songs, putting focus on famous historical or fictional women and singing their truth. For example she challenges the idea of a “witch” is by attributing to it a positive connotation, or sings about John Lennon’s wife Yoko Ono, to whom is often misattributed as the reason behind the breakup between The Beatles. 

She then goes on to singing about Wendy, a beloved character in J.M. Barries’s Peter Pan. After meeting Peter and travelling to Neverland, Wendy is asked to stay so that she can mother all the lost boys and live with Peter forever, but she eventually decides to go back to her family. When Peter learns of Wendy’s choice, he feels betrayed and eventually recruits her daughter to follow him to Neverland. In The Good Witch, Maisie Peters considers both sides of Wendy’s choice and accepts the charm of Neverland’s “magic and maybes” while wondering what would be of Wendy’s wings if she decided to stay in Neverland and eventually decides that “it gets old being forever 20”. 

Finally, in History of Men, Peters sings about the way men have acted and have been perceived in literature, history and modern relationships. In the second verse she mentions Samson and Delilah, who appear in The Bible’s Old Testament. Delilah betrayed Samson by cutting his hair and draining his strength, to then deliver him to the Philistine chiefs. While Delilah is blamed for Samson’s fate, it was Samson’s declining spiritual state that made him lose God’s favor. Despite this, Delilah is often depicted as the female version of Judas, even if her actions had little influence on Samson’s fate.

Similarly, in the bridge of History of Men, Peters mentions Helen of Troy. She sings that “men start wars yet Troy hates Helen”. While Helen is blamed for the Trojan war and the latter is seen as a “war of love”, the acts of the war itself have little to do with romance but are caused by the egos of the two men who started it. To stress even more this idea, she sings the perhaps most poignant lyric of the album: “women’s hearts are lethal weapons”, moving on to compare her lyrics to venom. 

Overall, Peters’s album is a great depiction of girlhood coming into womanhood and emphasizes stories of women that are often misunderstood or untold; besides that, it captures with fun and layered tones the struggles and upsides of coming of age, delivering a great set of songs that are assured to capture any listern’s attention.

The benefits to last year’s Reflective Writing module were boundless. Having a bi-weekly space to engage in broad discussions on divisive topics gave me a solid platform to scribble a mound of internal thoughts. Away from the classroom environment, I have always kept the practice of jotting down circling ideas and inspirations, as I tend to keep a small notepad within close reach at all times. The reflections in my notepad, personal or academic, usually become a kind of literary compost, sitting until they contribute to a new project. I could write egocentrically about my own creative process for hours, which is why the occasional guest speaker for Reflective Writing was always a refreshing break from my own introspection. I was warmed to hear the guest speakers segment of the module was returning for the second year. 

Our first speaker was poet and novelist, Katie Hale. After a brief, but endearing introduction from the always poetic Hannah Copley, Katie gave us a swift round-up/self-promotion of her previously released works and upcoming project. Her novel ‘My Name Is Monster’ is a title I recollect seeing, propped on bookshop shelves. Regardless of her published work, Katie soon affirmed her financial limitations, even though she has received some public recognition. It just takes a pie chart to confirm you are not in the same tax code as Margaret Attwood. I think for some people, it’s difficult to hear how a small percentage of writers maintain themselves financially from writing alone, or that your book release won’t be a social event printed in The Evening Standard’s socialite column. Goals are healthy, but romanticising critical acclaim and wealth doesn’t feel like the fuel for good storytelling, in my opinion.

A small segment of Katie’s pie chart that caught my attention was her funded retreats. She spoke of her retreats to Scottish castles, and Arctic villages where she was given a creative space to further her projects. I had never thought of this being a possibility before, and completely spiraled into a dream of running off to a remote stone castle to work on my creative projects. A change of scenery usually gets the cogs in motion.

Image by Miren Hayek from Pixabay

Andrew Tayor is a 2nd year Creative Writing & English Literature student at Westminster University. Born in London, Andrew enjoys being a part of a city with an appetite for art and creation.

My name is Aya and I’ve been at uni for the past two years. I’m going into my third. For context, I am fully blind, so even taking this step was very daunting just to get in. But I had a lot of help on the way which made the process a lot smoother. It was a bit harder because of covid at the time, but I still got the A levels required to get me on the course that I am on at the moment. When deciding what course to do, me and the people around me decided that doing a foundation year would be beneficial as uni is a big jump, so this could give me an insight into what uni life would be like.

Image by Charlie Irvine from Pixabay

I had an amazing teacher at my old school who helped me with the process of applying and doing everything from UCAS applications to personal statements. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be. I remember also doing all the necessary steps to make things easier for me like applying for DSA and student finance. The first year was definitely not an easy one, as there were a lot of things to learn. It was a slow process of getting all my support in place, so I was thankful that I had that foundation year to get myself together.

Aya is a student from the University of Westminster studying English Literature & Language.

by Wiktoria Jakubek

When we were at your dance competition… I will never see you dance again … When we were at your dance competition there was a boy about your age. I saw him speaking with his twin. Then I saw him dance. He was really good, and I thought he would be at least third, but his name never even appeared on the board. Then I realised he wasn’t real in the way I am, or your dad is. Only a few people could see him; his brother, me, and the lady from the jury. He came to her and asked her why his name, Max, had never appeared. And the lady answered that he did a stunning performance and came first in his category. “What category?” he asked with a spark of anger in his eyes. “Well…” – the lady paused, confused, not knowing how to explain to the little boy that he was not quite real. She asked him to make a signature. To be clear, he’s not a ghost. He can hold objects. So Max wrote his name on the paper, but nothing appeared. “See?”  the lady said quietly and looked at the piece of paper she started to fold. Tears came to the boy’s eyes. He didn’t understand. No one explained to him the thin line he stands on between existing and not existing. That he has different conditions than others, and he fulfils a different role. Max felt like the other kids, and looked like them. He was fit and his short haircut made his tanned face look a bit older than 8 but he believed he was just like the other children. He tried writing his name again. And only a thin line appeared. That is how deeply he desired to be real. Max couldn’t accept that his life is a mere imitation of life, a play – pretend. He knows the letters, he knows how to draw them, but his words can’t be preserved on paper. And not his will nor his family’s love could make the boy live normally. Their imagination wasn’t able to hold a whole other persona. The boy believed he was real. Imagination made him strong enough to exist but not to live. He could participate in the contest, but his score didn’t count. 

Fantasy People by Kellepics from Pixabay