SEVEN VOICES
  • About
    • Emily Norcliffe
    • Clarissa Wigoder
  • Curators
  • Contributors
    • TT19 >
      • Delphine Chalmers
      • Kate Weir
      • Natalie Perman
      • Kwan Q Li
      • Alex Beukers
      • George Wilson
    • MT18 >
      • Catherine Cibulskis
      • Bethan James
      • Rose Morley
      • Maia Webb-Hayward
      • Kwan-Ann Tan
      • Hannah Patient
      • Martha West
    • TT18 >
      • Jonny Budd
      • Charlotte Bunney
      • Jack Cooper
      • Leila Roberts
      • Nick Smart
      • Sarah Spencer
      • Simran Uppal
    • HT18 >
      • Clara Atkinson
      • Haroun Hameed
      • Meredith Kenton
      • Billy Lucas
      • Jessie Palmer
      • Anjelica Smerin
      • Emily Wigoder
    • TT17 >
      • Harri Adams
      • Julieta Caldas
      • Hannah Chukwu
      • Anietie Ekanem
      • Bea Grant
      • AS
      • Annabel Sim
    • HT17 >
      • Ed Maclean
      • Georgina Lloyd-Owen
      • Surya Bowyer
      • David Carey
      • Robert Jackson
      • Minying Huang
      • Jessica Ockenden
    • MT16 >
      • Charles Pidgeon
      • Adham Smart
      • Rebecca Thornton
      • Thomas Hornigold
      • Annie Hayter
      • Adam Milner
      • Thomas Lawrence
    • TT16 >
      • Thea Keller
      • Rebecca Took
      • Dominic Leonard
      • Anna Manning
      • Ben Ray
      • Harry Baker
    • HT16 >
      • Catriona Bolt
      • Ryan O'Reilly
      • Rebecca Marks
      • Ed Gould
      • Honor Vincent
      • Pierre Antoine Zahnd
      • Lindsay Tocik
    • MT15 >
      • Alexander Shaw
      • Lucy Byford
      • Emma Lister
      • JK
      • Kat Lewis
      • Maria Shepard
      • Adam Turner
    • TT15 >
      • Tom Gaisford
      • Jemma Paek
      • Harry Jones
      • Nasim Asl
      • Charlotte Pence
    • HT15 >
      • Ariel Fresh
      • James P Mannion
      • GL
      • I H-M
      • James Mooney
      • Tom Pease
      • Shivani Kochhar
  • Seven Voices
    • TT19 >
      • 1: mottle
      • 2: foam
      • 3: cinders
      • 4: milky
      • 5: dew
      • 6: grounding
      • 7: syrup
    • MT18 >
      • 1: ephemera
      • 2: alcove
      • 3: harem
      • 4: off-kilter
      • 5: stillborn
      • 6: embrace
      • 7: bloom
    • TT18 >
      • 1: percolate
      • 2: limerence
      • 3: wonky
      • 4: diaphanous
      • 5: hiraeth
      • 6: epoch
      • 7: epiphany
    • HT18 >
      • 1: scintillate
      • 2: periphery
      • 3: azure
      • 4: architect
      • 5: limbs
      • 6: ethereal
      • 7: opaque
    • TT17 >
      • 1: act
      • 2: wish
      • 3: fall
      • 4: cry
      • 5: restraint
      • 6: choice
      • 7: consequences
    • HT17 >
      • 1: truth
      • 2: digital
      • 3: horizon
      • 4: sharp
      • 5: luck
      • 6: savage
      • 7: uprising
    • MT16 >
      • 1: shelter
      • 2: morning
      • 3: colossus
      • 4: conceal
      • 5: curiosity
      • 6: recursion
      • 7: spirit
    • TT16 >
      • 1: coincidence
      • 2: details
      • 3: release
      • 4: we
      • 5: spiral
      • 6: dream
      • 7: endings
    • HT16 >
      • 1: evolve
      • 2: doubt
      • 3: memory
      • 4: &
      • 5: physical
      • 6: light
      • 7: permanence
    • MT15 >
      • 1: eclipse
      • 2: submersion
      • 3: collect
      • 4: voyage
      • 5: conflict
      • 6: portal
      • 7: map
    • TT15 >
      • 1: partial
      • 2: suspension
      • 3: £
      • 4: downstairs
      • 5: silence
      • 6: orbit
      • 7: final
    • HT15 >
      • 1: fantasise
      • 2: terror
      • 3: an awkward encounter
      • 4: in between
      • 5: wheel of fortune
      • 6: elemental
      • 7: races
  • Contact

Guest Contributions

19/2/2015

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Jemma Paek

I blink.

In the demi-semi-second between closing and opening my eyes, I watch her as she stands by the sink, squeezing halved lemons into the crystal jug on the kitchen counter. They are the size of her fist and vaudeville yellow. As she stabs them meticulously with the three-pronged fork (the most useless of all kitchen utensils) her left hand index finger, plaster-clad thanks to a recent encounter with a serrated knife, sticks out in the opposite direction and jars her movements slightly. It is not yet dawn; the moon still looms through the open window in the wall in front of her, and the trees are half-lit with weary eerie silver. She finishes squeezing the lemons - exactly twelve crescent lemon carcasses are stacked on top of each other now - and begins pouring in the sugar.

She listens to the saccharine sprinkling as the granules tumble over each other, out of their paper bag and into the jug. Some get caught on the lemon-wetted sides and catch the light. She uses a long wooden chopstick to begin stirring the two ingredients together. Now, the sugar melting into the juice with a soft shimmering and the rhythmic thud of the chopstick hitting the crystal, she turns towards her packet of Marlboros, deftly removes a cigarette with one hand, then uses the same hand to turn on the hob in its small scale explosion, bends over, lights her cigarette, turns it off again.

And then my eyes open.

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4: James Mooney

16/2/2015

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Lonely and pale on the muddy bank
Of the silver February river
There was a single broken sliver
Of old Agivey brick.

How had you arrived there?
Not placed nor dropped by a passing load,
You must have come from within the Bann
Where, sunk and silent deep below
Its mirror top, you began
To erode.

Shunted slowly down the stream
And churned and picked and worn
By the passing fish and flow
Until the thickening rains and rising flood
Raised you up and laid you out
A pale orange, worn down sliver
By the side of the passing river.

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4: Izzy Hughes-Morgan

16/2/2015

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Interval
In those fifteen minutes
I thought I saw it all:
Each cog whirring its way around
Plot lines and set design
Until it reached an earnest nod
And all were in agreement.

On the left, a mind drifting
Out of the auditorium and back
Through the day’s gaps and mishaps
Before a pause, then a glance forward
From the lull of the here and now, which -
She thinks - only preface the night somehow.

And over by the bar,
On his second glass and
Rehashing extracts from the first act,
Immersed in what he has seen, heard,
Can feel taking form as, towards the next half,
He directs hypotheses and prophecies.

Even the few who nosed through
Actors’ names and dates of birth
Remained part of it still.
The youngest so engrossed
That their disbelief, suspended,
Insisted it was real.

In those fifteen minutes
I thought I saw it all:
When each came up for air and
Hung in the balance between
The before and after;
The point at which the play stalled,
Took stock, then drove on forward
To the end, and a curtain call.

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4: Ariel Fresh

16/2/2015

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Picture
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4: Grace Linden

16/2/2015

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Picture
[?] made three seasons

There’s a road in France you might have been down,
with even-spaced lime trees along each side –   

the gaps between the trees are not exits
but pale green windows – the first shapes

of sunlight on high roofs. I travelled along
that road in spring; but now it is autumn

and the forecast rain has not quite yet fallen,
the scene still lies like a single brushstroke:

‘There is no need anymore, to be sure’ she said,
but oh, please see –  something happened here.

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4: Shivani Kochhar

16/2/2015

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Rome, In Between Places

Yes, rambling in your city, I can say “ciao”,
“buongiorno” with a bad accent, bad spelling.
Your masterpiece of a tongue
Is a mystery to me.

The words, labyrinthine,
Like your streets
A maze.
I lose myself in them:
Red coat seeing the dirty, roaring red of your sky.

All I know is that I am inauthentic

Overwhelmed, I sit in all the wrong places: 
“Grazie”: deliberate, thought.
I sit in all the wrong places.

How can I find you?
These words, written, are the only I speak to you.
And how could you know these foreign marks, combinations, sounds?

Yes, rambling in your city, I can say “ciao”,
“buongiorno” with a bad accent, bad spelling.
Your masterpiece of a tongue
Is a mystery to me.

A map of words, worlds.
I am going in circles.
Exploring the guide-books
Not the city.
How can I find you when I only know how not to?

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4: James P Mannion

16/2/2015

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Silk
You, whose eyes so often
Surprised me, whose
Touch always softened
My darkest moods;

You are no more,
And I, as they say,
Am less.

No has been said a cure
For addicts, whose
Contention, grossly immature,
Cannot resist the bruise.

But no more now,
No less, and not no,
As they say, but yes;

For I have seen the mights
Of your eyes, the silk
Of your sheets, the lights
That disguise your ilk,
                                                                                
And so it seems
That I, as they say,
Am yours, and no more
In between. 

0 Comments

4: Tom Pease

16/2/2015

0 Comments

 
  • So, you know with Quantum Theory...

  • Yes?

  • You know how there’s the thing where it’s like, there are loads of universes?

  • Well, I’d say there are more than ‘loads’, I don’t think ‘loads’ is really doing justice to the scale of the thing. I mean, for every second of the day you live in, there are billions of possible things that could happen, actually no, way more than billions, more than trillions even, there’s unlimited things. So like, in one universe, underneath this here pencil sharpener there is a homeless man trying to sell us a wheelie bin, or maybe in another one, Ben and Jerry’s have an ice cream flavour called ‘THE PUTRIFICATION OF THE VIRGIN MARY’, or… I bet there’s a universe, yeah, I bet there’s a universe where rope can talk. There is literally a universe where rope can talk but only in Esperanto. You ever talked to a rope? Thought so. Don’t you see though? So what I’m trying to say is - no, stop licking me - what I’m trying to say is that ‘loads’ just isn’t doing it justice. Loads can be so little, think about it. Take, for example, cats; so if you walk into a telephone box, how many is loads? Maybe like three, or four? Yeah, I’d say if you got holed up in a telephone box with four cats you’d be more than within your rights to say there were loads. And, for me at least, there is just a rather large, let’s say too large, gap between four and infinity.

  • Yeah, okay. But what I was, this is pretty good, what I was trying to say was, like, where are they?

  • Where are what?

  • The universes. Because they’ve got to be somewhere, don’t they? They can’t just be nowhere, because nowhere isn’t there. It doesn’t exist. Everything has got to be ‘where’ in some way or another.

  • Well, I guess, but we’re talking about universes here. Not, like, sticks or planets or frogs whatever.

  • Okay, I do get that but they’ve got to be somewhere. So like, and don’t interrupt me just for a minute please, say they were next to each other, the universes. In a line or whatever. And they’re circular aren’t they, probably. Like ball shaped I guess -

  • I think what’s happening here is you’re fundamentally missing the point on a very large number of levels -

  • No, no I’m not, please can you just not interrupt me for one time, just one, because this is important. And anyway, they must be ball shaped, because they’re hardly going to be square, are they. So, say they’re in a row, or actually it doesn’t matter what order they’re in, because, with the shape they’re in, there’s always going to be some space in between, isn’t there. So, imagine, and this is another Quantum thing that I heard, that you got moved there. Because, with the atoms being able to move anywhere, there must be a universe out of all of the loads of them - no, no you can fuck right off - there must be a universe where one day, all the atoms in your whole body just up and move straight over to the space in between the universes. Whatever it is there. So let’s call this place ‘between’. You’d be in ‘between’, wouldn’t you. In Between. So what I was trying to say was imagine what you’d think, or do or whatever, if you ended up there. Just close your eyes for a moment and try to imagine what exactly it would be like to be in the midst of so much nothingness. To be perfectly suspended in such vacuous plenitude. Do you think you could call yourself a god, balanced in that impeccable dialectic harmony between such a multitude of practically identical universes? Perhaps that’s where heaven is. Perhaps it’s where the souls of the living lie in wait, and come to rest. Perhaps it’s inner peace, transcendent glory, to exist merely in contemplation of stars and cosmos and matter. It would be deity, wouldn’t it?



It was at that moment that the employees of Kebab Kid witnessed The Ascension To Heaven Of Oliver Off Of Down The Road.
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4

9/2/2015

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"in between"
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