dovetail - gedok karlsruhe · the dovetail project gives people in nottingham, ... too many books,...

DovetailNottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe

Nottingham Workshop

February 2013


The dovetail joint is noted for its resistanceto being pulled apart. It probably pre-dates written history, and the design usedis an important method of distinguishingthe origins of a piece of woodwork.

We all have stories to tell. Stories about ourselves, our lives, our cities, ourhistory, our culture.

The Dovetail project gives people in Nottingham, Karlsruhe and Budapest theopportunity to tell each other their stories using creative writing workshops,visits to local heritage sites, and a five-day meeting in each of the three cities.Everyone taking part will have the opportunity to travel to at least one othercity to work with participants from the other project partners.

As part of the European Union Lifelong Learning Programme, Dovetail hassecured funding to help adult learners to acquire useful communication skills.Those taking part will be involved in as many aspects of the project as possible,so they will not only learn how to tell and write their stories, they may also helpwith running workshops, planning activities with the other partners, setting upand running events to perform their work, and producing printed anthologiesof their writing.

DovetailNottingham Workshop – February 2013

Contents4 Story of a Workshop – Pippa Hennessy7 The Germans, the Hungarians and the English – Lila Randall7 Morning Coffee – Anna Mikula8 Mary – Anne Borchardt8 Travelling – Wolfgang Kohl9 Happy Christmas! – Ágnes Szomolya9 Twitching Noses – Ellen Storey

10 Bricks – Anita Nagorny11 About Me in Metaphors – Katarina Kokstein11 A Subjective Travelogue – Melinda P. Szabó 12 Master – Gyöngyi Solti 13 Two Wheels on a Footpath – Ellen Storey14 A Traveller in Nottingham – Tammy15 Letters – Anne Borchardt16 On a Cold Winter’s Day – Raisa Mcleary Francis17 King Henry II – Ondine Dietz17 King Charles I – Wolfgang Kohl17 King Richard I – Martin Stehle18 King Richard’s Letters – Martin Stehle19 The Calm of Struggling – Erika Bondor 19 Water – Wolfgang Kohl20 Snow – Viv Purkiss20 Everything Was the Way You Thought – Mária Németh 22 What Awaits at the Border? – Ildikó Benkő 23 Kő/Stone – Katalin Budai24 The Man Known As The Hood – Ahinee Mensah24 Saving – Juli Károlyi25 “Write About Anything that Comes Into Your Head” – Katarina Kokstein25 Glacier – Renate Schweizer26 Eine Feder – Anne & Heidemarie Schlösinger, Anne Borchardt & Martin Stehle28 Roundelay – Ildikó Benkő 29 More Snow – Viv Purkiss30 Cigarette – Renate Schweizer31 I’m unable to write! – Apolka Frányó31 Scene in the underground train32 Evergreen Blankets – Ellen Storey32 Water – Ondine Dietz33 A Natural Existence – Serita Blake35 Dovetailing – Pippa Hennessy


Story of a WorkshopPippa Hennessy

The Nottingham Writers’ Studio hosted the first joint workshop for the Dovetail project, which washeld in Nottingham from February 12th-17th 2013. We were delighted to welcome 13 projectparticipants from GEDOK Karlsruhe, and 12 from 5K Központ, Budapest. 12 UK participants also joinedin with the activities.

Viv Purkiss and I waited nervously at the Igloo Hostel on Tuesday, occasionally taking calls fromminibus drivers who didn’t seem to know how to collect groups of people from airports, andwondering if our guests would ever arrive. We’d done the last bit of preparation – stocked the kitchenwith breakfast supplies – and all there was to do now was to hope everything would go well. HelenDurham had arranged a top-notch programme of visits and meals, Viv had organised theaccommodation, and I’d devised some workshops and writing exercises to kick-start our creativity.We’d thought it would be clever to time the workshop to coincide with the Nottingham Festival ofWords, which I came to regret in some ways as I was also involved in organising the Festival, so didn’t

get a lot of sleep in the lead-up to theDovetail workshop.

Thankfully, contact was establishedbetween drivers and passengers, andthe visitors arrived in good time tosettle in before going for a meal at TheRoebuck Inn in the town centre. It waswonderful walking throughNottingham with first-time visitors tothe city – seeing the buildings theynoticed and realising how interestingthe city actually is. I guess you get usedto a place if you live there long enough.We had a lovely meal, everyonechatting loudly and enjoying getting toknow new friends.

Wednesday brought SNOW! We met upat Nottingham Castle, some of usgetting lost in the blizzard, othersexclaiming at the glory of the city in thesnow. We soon warmed up inside thegalleries, looking around for pictures of

people that interested us then doing some writing exercises based on those people (real orimaginary). At the same time we were gradually starting to get the hang of each others’ unfamiliar-sounding names, and I for one was falling in love with the Hungarian language – it sounds beautiful.

After lunch we had a cold and slippery trip down Mortimer’s Hole. Our guide gave us lots ofinformation about the Castle and the caves. I was particularly interested in the hollows that the King’smen had carved out on the battlements when they were stationed there during the Civil War.

Our day at Nottingham Castle


Apparently they weren’t convinced they could rely on food supplies, so they hoped to entice pigeonsto nest there as a backup larder. Or maybe they planned to use them for pigeon post – veryappropriate, as that is what the Dovetail project is called in Hungarian. Not many people were in themood for writing after that, so we repaired to various places (the Castle cafe, the Trip to Jerusalem,local bookshops…) to entertain ourselves.

The Jam Cafe had very kindly put on an open mic night for us (actually, they have one everyWednesday) so we’d booked in for dinner there. By the time we got there the snow had turned to sulkyrain, so the delicious two-course meal provided by Chris and the staff was most welcome. I hadchicken and black pudding – a rare treat – and shared one of each type of dessert with Lila, as neitherof us could decide which to choose. The German group had come prepared for the open mic, and

entertained Nottingham’s musical community very effectively.Sadly I missed it, as I had to prepare for a lecture the next day, butI am assured they were brilliant!

We gave our visitors some free time on Thursday morning, butdragged most of them to Nottingham Contemporary in theafternoon to have a look round the Piero Gilardi and JohnNewling exhibitions, and do some more writing around thetheme of ‘value’ – what are things worth? what do we truly value?Most people wrote in their native language, and when some ofthe pieces were read aloud it was amazing to realise how muchwe could actually understand without knowing what was being

said. It was clear to me that Joachim’s piece (in German) was meditative, and Gyöngyi was obviouslyarguing with herself. Maya wrote about shoes… we know where her priorities lie! After this everyoneproceeded to the Market Square to make music and dance in honour of One Billion Rising’s day ofaction, which provoked some interest from the locals.

A group of the Hungarians spent Thursday in London, and judging bytheir photos, managed to see just about everything there is to see.

On Friday the sun shone gloriously. No sign of the snow and rain thathad made us wet and cold on Wednesday, or the grey skies thathadn’t managed to dampen our spirits on Thursday. we all got thebus (the driver was a bit taken aback when I ordered 25 day tickets –he trusted me when I told him it came to £85!) to NottinghamUniversity’s University Park campus, where we split into two groupsand took it in turns to spend time in the University Museum ofArchaeology with the brilliant and inspirational Keeper, Clare Pickersgill, and to walk around thecampus and look at the exhibition on water in the Weston Gallery. For me, the museum holds so manyinspirations for writing and thinking and wondering… passing round a pair of stone axes which wouldhave been used by real actual people thousands of years ago to chop down trees or to chop down eachother… looking at jewellery that had been worn by long-ago men or women… noticing how a samian-ware bowl was the exact same shape and size as the bowl Kati ate her breakfast from that morning…

We managed to get the bus back into town without losing anyone, and had a delightful meal at Dolceon Broad Street. I spent the evening wearing Angela’s black hat with a pink ribbon, which I love andam definitely going to steal next time I see her (although, to be honest, it looks a lot better on her thanit does on me).

Writing at NottinghamContemporary

Flashmob in front ofthe Council House


On Saturday we were all off to the Nottingham Festival ofWords. Our visitors threw themselves into the event withgreat enthusiasm, writing lines for Rosie Garner’s wovenpoem, adding to Sue Bulmer’s love art, participating inworkshops, going to talks, and even getting tarot readingpoems from the Rainbow Writers. I think everyone boughttoo many books, but only the local Dovetailers didn’t have toworry about excess baggage charges.

After spending a day rushing around at Nottingham TrentUniversity’s Newton Building, being a festival organiser aswell as a Dovetailer, it was wonderful to spend a relaxing andheartwarming evening at Nottingham Writers’ Studio,drinking wine and eating fish and chips, and sharing our

writing and our experiences. I was entranced by Julia and Gyöngyi’s presentation on some work theHungarian group had done with schoolchildrenabout the most beautiful words in Hungarian(which is in itself such a beautiful language that I’mdetermined to learn more than how to count to tenand how to say hello and goodbye). Renate’s poem“I want a cigarette” (not at all inspired by Ondine,honest!) had us all in tears of laughter, and severalof the German group read their work. TheNottingham Dovetail group was represented byEllen’s poem written at Nottingham Contemporary,a poem I’d written about the whole experience, andsome of Ahinee’s poems written about Ghana.

I was so sad to say goodbye to them all on Sundaymorning. And I can’t wait to see them again, inBudapest in June, and in Karlsruhe next February.

At NottinghamUniversity Museumwith Clare Pickersgill

Saturday night party!

the Hungarian group | the German group


The Germans, Hungarians and EnglishLila Randall

Windows steamed from the damp coats slung across chair backs. Outside snow speckled ghostspassed by, our glasses, illuminated by the warmth of our candle light, silently chinked. A three courserelay sunk all three nations’ bloated bellies into the cracks of the retro chairs. The Germans sat by thewindow with guitar strings patiently waiting to be accompanied. The Hungarians sat in the middle ofthe group; strands of hair fell from a long blonde plait andswayed in the gentle breeze of laughter. An English drew aface in the freshly steamed glass. Flick art portfolios passedaround the tables, cameras were explored. A softawkwardness of misunderstanding was broken by a toppingup of well-balanced, soft, supple and ripe fruit flavours. Thespicy notes tickled a German’s tonsils, so she chanted tribalAfrican melodies into the mic – showing the Cafe how toJam. After insights into home life they toasted to the nextmeeting, stepped into the February snow and wavedgoodbye until next time. Nächstes Mal! Legközelebb!

Morning CoffeeAnna Mikula

V. drank up the last gritty draught of her watery morning coffee with resignation and turnedexpressionless eyes to the gaping windows of the panel block opposite. The elderly woman from thefifth floor would ceremonially shake the blankets and eiderdowns heavy with the previous night’ssleep every morning. As she looked out at the street below she saw everything was in kilter: thechildren leaving for school were either squeaking or apathic as they appeared at the gate of the 10-floor concrete monster of a block, trudging alongside their parents to meet their fate.

V. turned away from the window and washed the mug with leisurely movements, having drunk themorning coffee, which, these days, was her only coffee per day. She had had brought the mug fromher mother’s house, when her mother decided to move into a run-down nursing home in the suburbsa few years ago, despite her daughter’s protests. Her mother, already elderly,didn’t want to be aburden for her only daughter and her decision was final. The mug recalled V’s youth, perhaps the onlypleasant memory of it, that of hot chocolate with whipped cream, which she would only be given onspecial occasions and would always drink from this same handle-less vessel.

V. recalled the days when her morning coffee would be sickeningly sweet from fat cream, before herhusband left them, when she would think it was her tiresome duty to see off all her family members inthe morning each and every day. O, how she longed to climb back into bed on those mornings, beingan exceptionally good sleeper – how hard she would find to dress up her two children, to prepare thesandwiches, brew tea and slip the lunchbox into his husband’s bag with a portion of the previous day’swarm meal for him to take to the factory where he worked like a dog for years and years. All the timesshe had to hear him complain that he would be far better off by now, were it not for his bad luck,weaving his fate with this disaster of a wife. But she never let the insults get to her and touch her heart.


And now she was missing even this. She had been sitting around in the small, shabby flat, she hadn’tbeen out even to do the shopping in the little shop at the bottom of the block. True, it was the end ofthe month and she didn’t really have money to spend. She always made a point of not being latepaying her bills, she had been brought up to believe it was a sin to owe money and she’d been unableto give up this conviction. Thus she was left with her one coffee a day, in the morning, made of chicory,with no milk and no sugar. She spent the day poring over the papers the old woman next door passedon to her, she read through the classifieds two or three times to make sure she hadn’t missed somehingreally important, something especially for her and about her, something that would fix her life.

Once a month she dropped in to the employment centre, where the indifferent clerk informed her inthree minutes that they had still no job that would require her qualifications. This is what she kepthearing at the centre, that she was overqualified. On the way home she was wondering how manymore days the insignificant-looking brown powder at the bottom of the plastic container would last.When it runs out, the world was going to end.

MaryAnne Borchardt

Old and greyoutside the worldlooking back to my childhoodI’m protected from the worldconnected to naturestrange people are coming round my hutdeep in the dark forestwhere my husband’s been murdered some years agoI’m wearing a red cape.

TravellingWolfgang Kohl

Every now and then I have to travel. These journeys take me to some town or city, mostly of noimportance. After the day’s work I end up arranging myself within a hotel room. What do you do whenyou have time left without knowing how to make use of it?

I am not really bored. There is a specific tension.

You smell the air of a new place but it is not new enough to go outside.

Sometimes you are lucky to bring a book with you. Sometimes you are not so lucky and end upwatching TV, seeing things you never wanted to know. Bad bad bad.

What is behind the curtain? What is beneath the surface?

Eventually, you fall asleep dreaming of the day to come.


Happy Christmas!Ágnes Szomolya

December, snow, cold. It’s been darkening, though it is less than three o’clock in the afternoon,everything is lit.

I do like Christmas. Not the buying sort really, not the rushing, the hectic period, but the preparations,the waiting, the pondering what to give to someone, excusively. I often hurry myself, but this time wasdifferent. I had official journeys, with free hours to wander around in different towns, and see differentlights, people, decorations. The stalls, the vendors.

In Kecskemét I had only an hour to look around. I was sure to buy something, but I had never dreamtof buying a painting. In the whirl I caught a glimpse of a tall, brown, smiling young man with a dog,jumping up as he drew out a tennis-ball. The stall wasn’t upset as I’d imagined it would be, the dogjumped again and again precisely to the same place. The man was selling paintings of miniature size,mainly landscapes. One of them depicted a little cottage, sorrounded by poplars. I felt warm calmnessto spread inside me. I began to filmsceening in my head. I am a teenager, at my grandma’s, riding mybicycle, to the horse-farm, making friends there. I was taught to ride and once it was late, almost dusk,we saw as the sun paint silver the poplars’ top . Sometimes in my dreams I see the silvery poplars, thepurple of the sky, smell the horses’ fine pungent smell. And I feel calmness.

And once more I was standing in front of the stall, and the young man was smiling as if he could see what Ihad seen. – How much is it? – I asked in a scrapy voice with the painting in my hand. He did not answer,just pointed at the written price. I handed it back to him, shaking my head sadly.It was more than I’destimated. He shook his head, and looked at me questioningly. Now I realized that he could not speak. Ishowed him my price in sign-language. He was very surprised and asked: are you deaf yourself? No, Ianswered in the same silent way, but I have friends who are. He smiled and nodded. Without bargaining. Ipaid and put the picture into my bag, wishing him happy Christmas. This was a present for myself.

Twitching nosesEllen Storey

a global nose twitch for this manwith no designer labellingnothing to feed the bloated catswhose claws can’t pin him to the Earth

he speaks a lonely currencythat few are able to interpretmostly he’s talked at, requisitioned

his house the formless air within fighting for space with selfish thoughts,toxic desires

he’s the unseen life and soulbut everyone knows when he leaves the room.


BricksAnita Nagorny

One red brick and another red brickAnd a lot of them make a wallAnd if I should tell you I couldn’t tell youWhy I love you at all.

One red wall and another red wallAnd four of them... make a roomAnd if I think about it I don’t doubt itIf I want I could leave you soon...

And as a child you built up a universeAnd everything in it’s newI’m telling you that nonsenseJust to say: I love you.

One small room and another small roomAnd... some of them give a houseAnd... I need you; I need your lovingI really can’t stay alone.

A lot of rooms make a houseA lot of houses make a townAnd you have to understandThere are times... when I’m feeling down.

And as a child you built up a universe...

A lot of bricks... make a wallA lot of walls... make a houseAnd all the houses... make a streetAnd all the streets... make a townAnd all the countries... make a countryAnd all the countries make a continentBut then... there are still the oceansAnd all of them make the earth!

But the earth is just a starAnd all of the stars make the universeBut before I get lost in the universeI’m gonna stop to sing that song!


About Me in MetaphorsKatarina Kokstein

She thinks I am the song of sunshine breaking through the boarded windows.She thinks I am a giant, spinning the world on the tip of my finger.She thinks I am the breeze of freedom,the sword of justice,a swing-set of sugar, calling from the playground...while all I truly am is the echo of her reflectionintent on just breathingwhile her song breaks through my boarded windows andshe is the one spinning my world on the tip of her finger,my breeze of freedom, my sword of justice and the only swing-set in my playground.

A Subjective TravelogueMelinda P. Szabó

Now to the airport. Luggage, check-in, boarding. Usual but still somewhat exciting events. The familiarsound of the plane, the weird, unlike-any-other sensation as we detach ourselves from the ground.Being above the clouds is inexplicable. We might know the laws of physics, yet for us, earthbound,flightless humans, it’s still a miracle. When I was a small child, I would stand in our courtyard waving tothe planes. I imagined they could see me from above. Now I know they can’t.

Maybe this is where my desire for travelling comes from. To go somewhere distant, to find out aboutnew places and people.

My destination now is Holland, the town of Delft. I’m visiting an acquaintance. I haven’t got veryspecific ideas and expectations about Holland. Some clichés: the country with no curtains on thewindows, Protestantism, Puritans, a mountainless country, Dutch tulip, cheese, good beers. That’s all inthe bundle I’m carrying with me.

Our plane lands in Eindhoven. I have some time left until the train departure, so I do some sightseeing.Wow, there are no curtains indeed! I wonder why they still keep to this tradition. In old times itsfunction was to show that while the head of the family, the husband as at sea, his wife was living avirtuous life, there was ‘nothing to hide from the neighbours’. Is it still about the same thing? A strangegesture that I find hard to decipher. I like it and find it repulsive at the same time. I have no right toprivacy? I try to imagine what it must be like to live like this. Maybe it’s about our uniformity, oursimilarity? However hard we may stick to the idea that we are each of us unique and special, to anoutsider, this is probably not so. What is it we see looking in through the windows? People reading thepaper, watching telly, eating, talking. These situations are familiar from our own lives indeed – so infact, what are we trying to hide when hanging up curtains? It would be nice to ask the Dutch aboutthis, but now I don’t have the opportunity.


Master Gyöngyi Solti

What she needs is a Master. Ivett said there are masters, who have seen the light, or something likethat, and they can pass on what they know to the others. Next to one of these Masters it’s easier tomeditate as well. Of course, she’s rather unlikely to find one here in the underground, so instead she’llask Ivett tomorrow where you can learn this Buddhism. This was Klaudia, once she set her mind onsomething, she would go on relentlessly until she’s tried all possibilities.

When the train reached the terminal, she carefully put the Buddhism booklet in her handbag andwent to the bus stop.

While waiting for the bus, she was soon seized by the usual impatience. As a rule, she would froth withquiet rage, rage against her parents who wouldn’t hear of her getting a driving license before she was17 and who had indeed moved this far from the city to get away from all the noise. Today, however,she stopped herself because a true Buddhist doesn’t rage, this much she felt. When she decided to killtime by scanning the people waiting at the opposite bus stop, her glance fell upon a young man.When she looked his way, he was in the act of ceremonially bowing, with his palms pressed togetherin front of his chest. Klaudia was astonished – why, this is the Buddhist greeting Ivett had told herabout. She turned around, quickly trying to identify who the mysterious man’s greeting had beenaddressed to. She could see no likely candidate, so she turned back to take a closer look at thestranger. There was nothing special about him, his clothes were simple, obviously he didn’t considerappearances very important. His shoes were downright ugly, not that it matters, it’s his way ofexpressing what he thinks about vanity.

He’s slightly plump, with a round face, but how peaceful and kindly! Wise, yes, that’s the word – hiseyes cast off a calm wisdom. It’s simply incredible that you can just bump into a person like this at abus stop! Ivett will be sorry she can’t have been here! It would be nice to get acquainted with him, buthow could she just walk up to a master? Because he must be one, everything fits! Wow, he’s made abow again, he greeted someone! Good heavens, are there this many Buddhists in Budapest? And she,Klaudia, had known nothing about it before. She decided to cross the street before the master couldboard the next bus.

She approached him with a determined air and was just opening her mouth to speak, when the mantook a step back and turned away, to show he had no intention of starting a conversation. Klaudia feltdeeply ashamed. How dare she assume she could disturb the master, how untactful of her! Shereturned to the opposite side feeling cheap and didn’t dare raise her eyes again.

‘I’m not to make acquaintances in the street!’, Jocó mantra’d Jolika’s words with his heart pounding andit took him minutes to finally regain his calm. He wondered what that girl had wanted. She can havemeant no harm, he would have felt if she had, but he can’t get it wrong today of all days, he must obeythe instructions. After all, this is a great day, he can finally go home on his own! In other people’s livesthis day might come when they are 8 or 10, but Jocó was feeling very happy about it even though hewas 25. Because he’s not like other people. He’s special, as Mother keeps saying. Perhaps not verybright, but the Lord had put as much more into his heart, as much less he’d put into his head. Jolika,the social worker at the workshop said this. It was Jolika too who had taught him how to go home. Shehad seen him home countless times, always explaining everything carefully, instructing him where tolook. She would awaken him from his revery whenever his thought began to wander, she would


mercilessly drag him back from the peaceful state he got into whenever he wasn’t stronglyconcentrating. Last time he made it all the way home without making any mistake or needing anyhelp, so today the great day arrived when he can go home alone. Mother will be waiting for him at thegate and there will be much rejoicing when he arrives

The bus will come soon, yes, here it is, turning the corner. So, one last time! He couldn’t help stealingone more glance before boarding the bus! He held his mobile phone dangling on a band around hisneck between his two palms to stop it from blocking the view as he bent. Unfortunately his bellymade it necessary to bend slightly ahead if he wanted to see the beautiful pair of new shoes Motherhad got him for his birthday the day before.

Two wheels on a footpathEllen Storey

Just two wheels on a sun-dried path legs building speed before they rest fuelled by heart’s electric pulse.A heady meadow breezefans pink glow of my heated skin

Two wheels grant mercy time to dodgefor roaming pheasant, deer or hare…two wheels allow our brief exchangeof curious eyes and atmosphere

Wrens chanting age-old litaniesin buzzing high-rise hedgestyres grind the powdered stonesno scurries drowned by engine growlno poison fog lingers behind

Crickets pause – fatigue or fear?a fatted pony snorts his querythe swishing of his pendulum tailis synchronised with remote chimes…

…then blasted by a Honda’s adventwhich dictates a new heart rateand forces me onto the fringesour brutish age is reinstalled

Two wheels enter the rustic jammore smoothly than those four wheels can!


A Traveller in NottinghamTammy

I am a traveller.

I travelled from China, the birthplace of paper and the compass, A country with a history of around 5,000 years To the UK, the cradle of the industrial revolution, To Nottingham where Robin Hood shot, Where Lord Byron wrote poems, Where lace-making was a famous and dominant industry a hundred years ago.

One day, when I saw the clock on the top of the railway station,I asked myself: “Where have you left your footprints in Nottingham?”

The pictures unfolded in my head:

On the stairs of Nottingham Castle, On the footpaths of the Lace Market, On the green fields of Wollaton Park, In the gardens of Newstead Abbey, By the River Trent, In front of the tomb of Lord Byron.

I also asked myself: “What do you know about dwellers in Nottingham?”

Faces kept flashing before my eyes:

I met a Chinese girl who had been a graduate of the Nottingham Trent Universityand is now working as an artist.

I met a lady who sold the fashionable lace products that she designed and made.I met a poet who read her poem to the guests at an event launch.I met an enthusiastic cyclist who teaches cycling.I met a man who was learning yoga.I met a woman who wanted to learn Tai Chi.I met an old man who plays football in his garden and goes to watch games regularly.I met a couple who like walking in the woods.I met a group of people who share ideas and stories by practising writing. I met more people volunteering in various places.

Nottingham is an exciting place to live. You can find an artistic, poetic and dynamic world here.


LettersAnne Borchardt


On a Cold Winters DayRaisa Mcleary Francis

On a cold winters day, woken by the sunshine and the birds, ready for a writers session day with theDovetail group. Creatively wake up in a crazily dizzily digested mood, ready to take on a whole day ofcreative writing and sightseeing. I jump out of my warm cosy bed, stare into the mirror, wipe my eyes.Give off a gigantic yawn and stretch, the more I stretch the more awake I feel. Legs shiver, arms waver,long nights and early mornings. Dreams shortened by nocturnal forces of sleepless nights. All awake,clothes picked out from my unorganised room. Full up to the maximum, my old flat which I left tocome back home, still here in this small room.No wardrobes but boxes, PVC acrylic boxed heaven, notpermanently staying so I’ll cope just fine for now.

Clothes sorted, underwear sorted!

Night robe tied ready for my shower. Towels sorted! Bubble bath sorted! Toothbrush sorted!

Time? Like always: LATE!

Rush rush rush... that shower so nicely touching all of my body pitter patter pitter patter... I could fallasleep whilst standing. A massage emerged dampened droplets of water on my back, on myshoulders, on my face. This is amazing.

Shower? Finished!

Clothes? On!

I remind myself, as thoughts run loudly when I think or if I am late. Ready to step out of the front door,what a cold day. It’s started snowing. I thought the weatherman left that behind back in January. Well,not to worry. I walk ten minutes down the road to my bus stop. Right with my prettiness I stretch myneck out to look higher than the cars in front of my squinted eyes so I can put my hand out for the bus.

79? Right that’s my bus. I get onto the bus, hop on it, get ready for the bus journey that will take me tomy destination. My mind always blocks out my surroundings if busy or late so I shan’t be describing

my bus journey.

Into the town centre, City ofNottingham, ready for the castlewhich looks amazing in the snow,wow, it makes me feel as thoughI’m looking at something, wow.Okay, thought I was in a wholedifferent town, city, okay, country!My eyes love culture, nature, thelot. I can go on for miles.

STOOD, BACK ARCHED, HEADHELD HIGH, “SIGH.”

What a beauty, with all thathistory locked up inside it.


King Henry IIOndine Dietz

it was snowing outside when King Henry opened his eyes on that morning after an sleep similar toagony, ennerved by immemorable dreams. And in that first moment nothing seemed to announce theterrible, mysterious episode which occured later on that day. Almost at the same time as he openedhis eyes and felt himself flooded by the energies of life, and quite a minute before he registered theunusual fact, that it was snowing (unusual because of the season)he took a look in his Greek mirror ofpolished bronze which lay, as every morning, on the alabaster table by his bed, and spoke these wordsto the ephebic young man in the mirror:

“I , me, King Henry, I am God’s incarnated will, I am the state, I am the kingdom with all its boroughs, infact, I am God’s borough on earth... But much more than this, I am, am I? The sublime incarnation of allGreek gods, I, me, the Norman Adonis, or maybe even Apollo; i have studied all the Holy Scriptures ofChristianity, and am I not somehow the most special person on earth: Greek god and magnificentfortress? And at the same time a brilliant philosopher , who has memorised every quote of Seneca andMarcus Aurelius – am I not nature’s masterpiece, and do I not represent the spirit of the polis that theGreeks have bequeathed to us? But what an uncanny snowfall outside! Let´s do some writing. I will putdown my Magna Charta”

King Charles IWolfgang Kohl

As soon as Charles I arrived at Nottingham, heavy winds arose driving dark clouds across the sky.Everything, and besides: everyone, seemed to be prepared for a nightmare. But Charles’s black horsewas grinning at the people, aware that its rider wanted to start a little revolution.

But Charles came alone. He left almost alone, just having convinced some 300 fighters to fulfill hisdreams of power and glory.

King Richard IMartin Stehle

I am King Richard indeed, and I am resting with my attendants in Sherwood Forest. I remember oneday. When I woke up this day it was snowing: large snowflakes that fell on the cold stones of my castle.Oh my God! “This time in which we live!” I thought, and it shook me like a cold storm wind. I wentdown again from the top of my castle complex into my splendid apartments – only wearing my capeand my shoes. My followers seem to have died out and I feel alone at the big table where I’m eatingnow. I heard about someone called Robin Hood.


King Richard’s LettersMartin Stehle


The Calm of StrugglingErika Bondor

Mondays were always an inferno of bustling activity at the hospital department. Most of thetreatments are started on Mondays, the laboratory is always lagging behind with the tests, everythingis on full capacity. As they say, patients are arriving on a conveyor belt. Of course everyone isimpatient, the doctors, the nurses and the patients alike – the latter have probably more right to be so,but nobody really cares.

A fragile blonde is sitting waiting for her turn, apparently she doesn’t mind if those behind her jumpthe queue. She was in no hurry. You must take your time. There was a plush teddy bear sticking out ofher handbag, which was a rather anachronistic moment in an adult oncology department. Her childwill cry when he realises it’s not there, she was now reprimanding herself – it was now in her bagbecause they had left for preschool too late and she had to rush if she was to get to the lab beforeclosing time. She keeps forgetting everything these days. But at least she’s been through the bloodtest and the MRI scan, she only has to wait for the results.

These hospital corridors are so bare. Strangely enough the attempts at decorating them only achieve acontrary effect – the pot plants in the corner are limp, the paintings on the wall mostly depict horriblyorange, near-kitsch sunsets.

Then it was finally her turn, she was so nervous she could hear just fragments of the sentences. I’msorry but there’s an increased level of the tumor marker... might be recidival... we must wait for the MRIscan to know for sure... She felt outside time and space, she had no idea where she was.

Her stomach lurched and a slow but relentless glacier of icy fear started its descent along her spine.One week went by. Her mailbox was full every day, the heaps of unwanted promo leaflets usuallyfluttered onto the floor around her feet. She would pick them up patiently day after day. Today therewas a larger white envelope among them. She opened it slowly, her trembling hands tearing thepaper. The words swam in front of her eyes, but at the same moment she was seized by certainty andinfinite calm. She didn’t see the letter any more, she heard the slow thuds of a tennis ball rolling downthe stairs... the dog of the old man upstairs... it’s his ball... Or is it not? It’s just the rhythm as it thuddedon inside her ears. Calm.

WaterWolfgang Kohl

Water is energy. Painters will love thescene.

Everyone wants stableness. Stable like alighthouse.

Everone wants action. Action like alighthouse surrounded by a sea ofenergy.


SnowViv Purkiss

Don’t you love the snow?Don’t you love the way it muffles the world and kills sound as it falls gentlyDrains away not just colour, but noise. You become deaf. Small in massive whiteness.You will be taken apart piece by tiny pieceSnowflake by snowflakeLie now on the cool white blanketBody cradledSoft flakes floating down, gentle as feathersEach flake kissing fleshTaking a tiny piece of heat awayUntil you lie with snow underneath, and piled on top, andYou know you will not wake up.

Everything Was the Way You ThoughtMária Németh

At least one of them should have succeeded...

The man was more impressed by the much younger colleague’s attention than that of the woman,who, similarly to himself, had just been over a long and conflictful divorce procedure and who didn’teven give him much encouragement. (Maybe she didn’t even know how to do it, she was merelyhappy about the time they occasionally spent together, about their discussions becoming more andmore intimate.) Then, when the two women were working on the same project, the older one wasstruck by the young one’s visible embarrassment and a few days later, when she meant to join her andthe man at the table at a company event, the remaining ‘free’ seat turned out to be ‘occupied’. Whenone day looking out of the back window of the coach on her way to work she saw his and her car onestraight after the other, she knew everything. She, the older woman, felt she lost something that hadnever been hers in the first place. Nobody had deceived her, maybe apart from herself. By and by shestarted to keep her fingers crossed for the two of them – she knew both had been through enoughdisappointments. The openness, intelligence and determination of the girl was less attractive for boysthan the affluence of her family. When it turned out that her father, a well-off enterpreneur, exploits hisdaughter mercilessly so she has to go out of her way to perform at all costs, to do her best in her job aswell as in the family business, and the high expectations concerning her boyfriends were also


articulated, they gave up their love. So did the man. He wanted a simpler life and he hadn’t quite puthis grievance, his divorce (launched by his wife), the separation from his children, all behind him. Still,it took a few months for the uncertain advances, the desire to be liked, to be replaced first byacceptance, the ecstasy of fulfilled passion and, in turn, by the reproaches, the series of conflicts andeventually mutual rejection. The older woman noticed how the man gradually renewed his wardrobe,purchasing clothes more in line with what his love and her age group would wear instead of his well-worn pieces long out of fashion. Yet he caused more and more bitter moments for his youngsweetheart, he behaved like a spoilt mother’s darling, in the heat of their arguments rudely criticisingeven his lover’s few extra kilos.

How did the older woman know about all this? Of course, from the accidentally overheard gossip of anintimate ‘good friend’ of the young woman. She found it almost painful that the two people she heldin equally high esteem still hadn’t made it as far as to make their relationship public in front ofeveryone. But she also felt some relief: it wasn’t her who had to experience selfishness yet again, shewasn’t the one to be left alone one more time. She realised that what she had felt wasn’t love at all, justthe longing for love – again.

In her dream, the natural gestures of the younger woman, the power of her soft voice and thesimplicity of her words’ content was elevating and reassuring at the same time. She was filled withpeace and a feeling of affection, beyond friendship and love. She had long ago given up seeing theyounger woman as her competitor, yet after her dream, she was glad to have settled everything withinthemselves as well as with each other. It was a perfect moment, whose force she will remember all herlife.

Her dream was still on her mind when, an hour later, she left for the start-of-term teachers’ meeting.They had put the whole thing behind themselves, so why was she so elementally under the spell ofthe scene in her dream? It had been the first time she dreamed of her and they hadn’t seen oneanother all the summer...

A colleague’s car pulled to a halt when passing her – a colleague who had never before offered her alift to the school. The driver was surprised to find she hadn’t heard the sad news. The news about theyounger woman, the visitor her in her dream, who turned out to be in hospital in a coma – due toexhaustion or the mistake of doctors.

She was buried a few days later.

The older woman never spoke about her dream to anyone, even though she often felt like sharing it,especially when she heard about the lawsuit the father had launched. He didn’t succeed in finding hismental peace...

One of the dialogues from the streets:

Two middle-aged women are in an animated discussion at the coachterminal, gesticulating excitedly. They put their substantial pile ofluggage on a bench and put their heads together. I draw nearerbecause I can only hear shreds of the conversation, but they look at mesuspiciously and stop talking. We take the same coach but I can onlycatch one single sentence from the dialogue, which is presumablyabout other people: ‘Everything was the way you thought.’


What Awaits at the Border?Ildikó Benkö

Zoli became a cellist. And an excellent one, too – he’d given countless concerts, he’d won internationalcompetitions, he was given a scholarship to Geneva along with his diploma. And something else,something more important. His love, Kriszti, hadn’t come to the ceremony. Zoli was turning his headuneasily in search of the girl, with disheartening thought in his head. Has she forgotten about it? No,can’t be. She must be in trouble! Is she ill?

He could hardly pay any attention to the ceremony and as soon as his top grade degree was in hishands, he was in a hurry to see his idol, his sweet little fiancée. He stopped dead at the entrance of theflat – he could make out unmistakeable sounds of pleasure through the door. Had she lent the flat tosomeone? He rang the doorbell. After a long while the door was opened... with Kriszti inside... and...Zoli’s best friend, Tibi!

He went inside, his head swimming, and sat on the sofa that had seen quite different emotions a fewminutes ago. As if a it was a voice recording in a payphone, he could hear the usual words, ‘I carefullyconsidered our relationship and realised that it’s Tibi that I love, not you. We wouldn’t have beenhappy together anyway. ‘

Zoli stood up and left. He didn’t take his bag with him. They wouldn’t let him into the metro withouthis pass. He went back, rang the doorbell, through the haze saw the distant figure of a weeping girl,picked up his bag and went home.

They had planned a journey to Transylvania for the next day. He went to bed and then took the earlymorning train. He was too dizzy with the events of the previous day to realise that the train was empty.His friends weren’t there, maybe they would board at some later station. The night before Zoli had leftthe domain of logic and went to meet his fate unresisting. Nobody boarded the train, not even theconductor came to check his ticket. At the border there was a huge shouting crowd. When they sawthe single passenger, they turned into a many-headed monster, passed his body from hand to handand beat him for an entire week. Until a group of Hungarians spotted him, fought desperately to gethim back and gave him first aid, which involved no more than dressing his wounds and putting him tobed, due to the extreme situation. He spent several days lying unconsciously in his room and when hefinally woke up, he couldn’t tell who he was. Everybody was talking about an execution but hecouldn’t quite make out whose, there was a strange foreign word they kept saying, maybechauchescu. He dropped back into unconsciousness. When he came to, everything seemed distant, asif he was walking on a thick layer of sponge, and the words, thoughts and images also seemed to beenveloped in sponge. There was another train rattling along with him, but the sponginess didn’t goaway. His family was searching for him, that’s how the people caring for him found out where to sendhim back. His mother and brother met him at the station. They were wearing black, their eyes red withcrying. A needle prick in his memory – he has something to do with these people. One word managedto reach his brain: FATHER.

‘Where’s father?’

No answer.

‘Where’s father?’


The silence became deeper.

Zoli was a musician, he could feel even through all the layers of sponge that there was some trouble.He kept repeating the question, crying, heaving, screaming. Eventually his brother squeezed his armwith all his might.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead? Dead!’, he repeated mechanically for minutes. He looked at his brother as if he was their father’skiller. They could hardly push him into the car. He wouldn’t calm down, finally he was taken to hospitaland put to sleep.

He was kept at the ward for two weeks but the doctors couldn’t save his mind. He is still unable tocope with basic everyday situations. He dimly recognises the characters in his life, he’s always veryaggressive with his brother. He makes the odd visit to the Waldorf kindergarten, he speaks a little withthe teacher and plays his cello to the children, if it’s one of his good days.

Kö / Ston eKatalin Budai

A nottinghami Egyetemi Múzeum látogatására / On visiting the University of Nottingham Museum

Kő.

Kézreálló.

Kapartak vele.

Vágtak vele.

Nyúztak vele.

Éleztek vele.

Csonkoltak vele.

Hasítottak vele.

Öltek vele.

Tegnap.

Ma.

Stone.

Palpable.

They cut with it.

They skinned with it.

They maimed with it.

They split with it.

They scratched with it.

They cleft with it.

They killed with it.

Yesterday.

Today.


The Man Known As The HoodAhinee Mensah

The warrior’s outstretched handswith his bowspitting out his arrows.His band of men in a rowfollowing his every step. Watch their determined legsthrough the mud and sand

holding up the flagfighting for those in ragsas only he could.The man known as The Hoodwith his men through Sherwoodbattling through the woodswith little food

taking no bribe.Through the forest they rideleaving behind their brideswho look on with tears of worryand pride.

SavingJuli Károlyi

The child’s face was a bluish purple colour, with hues of green – except for his ears and the tip of hisnose, which were white with the effort. He was screaming inarticulately. His canines were unusuallypointed, or at least this is what crossed Tibor Midász’ mind as he was staring at the child.

‘The required amount can not be withdrawn from your account’, the cashier’s voice suddenly spokestraight by his ear and Midász turned his back to the woman and the child standing behind her in thequeue with a start. Before he could reply, the cashier went on. ‘Don’t worry. For cases like this our chainhas developed a credit policy with highly favourable conditions. If you are interested, please study theterms here at the bottom of this information leaflet and if you decide to join our policy, you won’t haveto pay for the goods you are buying today. Kindly stand aside until you’re finished.’

In the meantime, the child had stopped screaming and now he was pounding his fist on the side ofthe trolley while yelling rhythmically, ‘Buyitbuyitbuyitbuyit!’

The information leaflet told customers in big friendly colourful letters that the credit they wereoffering was interest-free and the larger its amount, the more products you can buy for more andmore reduction in price. Moreover, the amount to be paid back can be significantly reduced, see theterms and conditions after the asterisk at the bottom of the page.


“Write about anything that comes into your head”Katarina Kokstein

“Anything that comes into your head,” she said and stirred the cauldron one more time to give thepotion a counter-clockwise swirl.

“But what if I ask the wrong question?”

The witch looked down at the cat in amusement. “You are not worried about the question. It is thewrong answer that scares you. The one you might not want to hear.”

The cat lowered its gaze. She was right. What if he was not up to the challenge? What if the cauldrongave him the wrong destiny? One that he could not live up to because he was just a cat?

“So what will it be?” the witch asked, scratching her beard with one long green finger. “I am notreturning your fish-head anyway, so you might as well just waste the question on asking about theweather, if you are too much a mouse to pop a real one.”

The cat gazed into the cauldron and took a deep breath. “All right...” He closed his eyes to steady hisbeating heart:

“Cauldron, cauldron in the night,knower of shadow and knower of light, tell me the purpose of everyday strife,tell me the purpose please of my life.”

Immediately the potion began to bubble and hiss and swirl and curl... and out of the hissing thecauldron’s words could be heard:

“Kitty, oh kitty in the night,fearer of shadow and fearer of light,your purpose I know, your purpose I’ve seen,it’s the same as everyone’s in the stream.As everyone you have much trouble to see:your purpose in life is HAPPY to be.”

GlacierRenate Schweizer

Ice icy easy icebaby bubble bubble iceicy spicy icy coldbubble struggle struggle old

easy freezy water iceglacy blue land lagoonicy ocean blue skyblue so far away


Eine FederAnne & Heidemarie Schlösinger, Anne Borchardt & Martin Stehle


RoundelayIldikó Benkö

Saturday afternoon,I don’t feel I exist,masks frozen to faces knocking against me,a reverse crying,space flowing in through my eyes,hopelessly fixed concerns and pleasures,vicious circles,self-surrogates floating along the street, a car, a cellphone,their owners on a leash,a pregnant bride posing proudly in front of the Town Hall,feeling her fate coming, she guffaws, baring black teeth,she’s photographed in mid-giggle,the kid bridegroom likewise,his forehead not wrinkled by gloomy prospects.The upper middle crust is busy shopping,the have-not emptiness of the caveman corresponding to the have-all

emptiness of the mall-man,a date, the young meeting the old, discussingwhose shopping bag bulges with what, before each of them returns to their one-person paradise,cut prices, nervous mothers hunting for pseudo-advantages,with the accompaniment of the ultrasounds of the little uns,a street fiddler is torturing his instrument in selfdestructive accords,cool guys are showing off their nude muscles in the freezing wind,swinging on their skateboards,spitting obscenities from splitting throats,the heated teenager is crawling on his belly,stealing the frivolous cap off a purple-haired girl’s head,the teasing is on,the tattered loitering folk are watching,humming peace in their wakelike the stench of rotten meat,which mixes with the carcinogenic stir of the Double Cheese McRoyal McMenudeep inside the bodies.Vomit stains, the traces of solvents solidifying on the pavement,a drunken stranger giving a high fivesquinting loud and proud,his chest swelling up world-sized as he sighs,


the strength of youth is a black raven, a whole flock of them fluttering in an evil smirk.

Drug-empty gazes.Through the deaf din there is so much solitude, so many shuffling hands

reaching out who knows where,so much attention searching for something in the idle buzz,so many opportunities are being born and dying just now.Maybe at night.You shrug off your burden. Silence covering you.You can embrace it from the other side of the earth,you merge with every being.

More SnowViv Purkiss

When I wake up, it is snowing. The tip of my nose, peeping out from under the bedclothes, is numbwith cold. I pull it back under the covers and rest it on my sister’s shoulder. We are all huddled underthe covers, our breath mingling, making it nice and warm under there, though my brother Roderickmakes nasty boy smells on purpose, forcing them out and giggling. He is quiet now, breathing gentlyin the dark, snuggled up against us. Usually, when the birds start singing, I know it is time to rise, butthe snow kills the world. I hear no birds, no man, no wind, no animals. They take shelter in the barnbelow and any wild animal would do well to curl up in its burrow and not move until spring.

My sister stirs; I am sure we must be near our usual time for rising, but there is no point. No work canbe done outside. The animals in the barn will need to be tended but that is all. If we all stay in bed wewill be warm without having to light a fire and if we stay asleep we will not have to drink or eat. Evengoing outside to do our business will freeze us so we hold it in. I am, anyway. I don’t want to receivewinter’s bitter caress on my backside or my nonny.

When the snow melts, I will see my friend Susan, who lives in the next village. We will laugh, and ask,“What news?”

“Susan,” I will say, “There is no news. Everything is exactly the same. A lot of days, we stayed in bed. Ilistened to my brother Roderick fart and my sister Juliet snore gently. The sweet smell of hay rose fromthe barn below as the cow chewed her cud, exactly as always.”


CigaretteRenate Schweizer

Cigarette,cigarette,

cigarette.Oh, oh...

I need a cigarette.Cigarette,

cigarette,cigarette.

Give me a fuckingcigarette.

Cigarette,cigarette.

Give me a fuckingcigarette.

Cigarette,it’s all I need...

a cigarette.breathe,

breeeeathe,breeeeeeeeeeeathe.

I am walking through the park,but all I want is a cigarette.

The sun is shining,but I want a cigarette.

The birds are flying,but I, I need a cigarette.

The flowers are showingtheir great beauty,but I, I want a cigarette.

Cigarette,cigarette,

cigarette.

In England, Germany or Hungary,Nottingham, Budapest or Karlsruhe,the world is singing, dancing, shouting,crying, laughing, talking, screaming, loving. I wanna get a cigarette.It’s the only thing I really need.

I think.


I’m Unable To Write!Apolka Frányó

I’m simply unable to write!

I’ve tried to get down to it several times. What I do feel most is the pressure of the duty I’m neglecting.

I’m listing my excuses. For instance, I work late hours, it’s 10 pm by the time I make it home, with myhead full of all the troubles of work, I need some relaxing. So I switch on the telly, make dinner, lookaround on the internet, etc. This takes my mind off things for hours, I’ve quite got used to it, in fact.After all the tension of the workday it’s nice to feel my muscles and nerves relax if I find a good film towatch and stuff my stomach with some food.

Next time I notice, it’s 2 or 3 am by the time my eyelids are heavy and I feel I can go to sleep wihoutbeing woken up by worrying thoughts.

It crosses my mind I haven’t written a thing today. I’m terrible. But what is there to do, I’m surely unableto do it now. Tomorrow morning, no later!

I get up late, it’s already 10 am. As I stretch my muscles, I could just as well be content with a goodnight’s rest, but the terrible realisation comes down on me like a ton of bricks – I have but 2 hoursbefore I have to leave for work. Coffee, shower, getting dressed, and there’s a documnet I have to printout. I won’t have time to ruminate over what to write. I’m tortured by terrible guilt because of the way Iwasted all last night. It would have been so good to make some progress. Now anyway, I’m sure to getsome fresh ideas while I’m working and I’ll jot them down.

Then the day is over and of course I had no time at all to do anything about it. Fact is, I didn’t give it asingle thought. It was only when I got into my car and went over my plans for the evening that thedepressing thought came up that now I really must get down to it and write something. But I surelyneed to have a quick bite before I start. And it would be so nice to watch another film. But then again, Ican’t, it would mean getting stuck to the screen for hours. Yet this is the sole pleasure in my whole day.What is there to do? The feeling that it’s a justifiable excuse almost made me smile. I can’t go and feelbad about not getting down to my duties straight after coming home!

Scene in the underground trainGIRL (age 20) seated, reading book, WOMAN (age 40) seated, looking around, OLD LADY 1 (age about 70but well preserved) energetically gets on train and takes seat nearest to door. At the next stop a reallydoddery old lady (OLD LADY 2) gets on, with a walking stick. No free seats. GIRL jumps up to offer herseat, train starts with a jolt, she loses her balance.GIRL: I’m sorry.WOMAN (nods, smiling)OLD LADY 1 (hostile): Can’t you be more careful? I need that foot! (Looks at WOMAN triumphantly –WOMAN raises her eyebrows and turns away)GIRL (looks surprised, leaves train at next stop)WOMAN: ...OLD LADY 1: These are young people today for you. Always so heedless. (Leaves train at next stop, stillhuffing and puffing)


Evergreen BlanketsEllen Storey

industrial settlements bully life into potsallotments and parkstapered oxygen chambersor motorway décor

a wife cooking lunchfor her guzzling husbandwho rejects her peacewhose demands don’t sleep

she knits green blanketswith hands cuffed togetherbound by her vowsand eager to deliver

See buds swell under snowSee, bees plant their magicAs though all was well

waterOndine Dietz

diving in the warm

amniotic

liquidity of selfforgotten selfishness

i feel thirsty

to become

glacial

solid

translucent

though

amnesiac

lost and birth given

by the floods

of shakespearean tempests


A natural existenceSerita Blake

Nottingham my home, my life even when I left the attachment an umbilical cord that was neversevered and over time grew to silver, gold, and platinum then to titanium.

Veins then spread…Grew

A worldwide strenuous link carried through air streams Gracing the opulent to the underprivileged

This is strength in unity from lands afar:Stir me

Rattle meSway me

Shake me!An orchestral rhythm that swells in a beautiful wall of sound and fills the air with notes of delicacy and

foreign tongueThe vibe which takes the world through the night and surges the vibrations and energies higher andhigher swirling them together like a witches cauldron making sweet potion and spellbinding words

Unbreakable Spread this to whoever wishes to hear and devour the sweet, succulent vocabulary.

Sweet music all day and night long can do so much so throw it! Share it!

The lace fuses usTHROW IT!

Around the worldNottingham!

Budapest! Karlsruhe!

A reciprocatedLove of words:

Binds us!Unites us!

We share a loveA passion

Shared vision a renewed energy. A connection practised for thousands of years

Communication before we even knew how to form the word Writing

Upon our lipsSo much feeling so much survival so much music so much rhythm

Pulsating through the blood of the momentSavouring each line


Feeding of each other energyFrom Nottingham, Budapest to Karlsruhe

AfricaThe Americas

EuropeRussiaChina Japan India

Australasia to …The world has and always will be ALIVE so long as we are alive as long as we feel alive

With the joy and the love of words, stories united and tied the thread that runs through each lineeach stanza

Each paragraph

A word blooms like a sweet flower seasonally, expectedly like the passing of time annually: Words

Taken for granted Used

Thrown away Abused

Proud people exploring new lands exploring the unknown:Different languages

Different streets Different currencies

Different races Different faiths

Different time zonesDifferent roads

Different architecture Different histories

UNITEDBy

Beauty and delight…

WORDS.

A natural unityAn

Unbroken Bond


Dovetailing / Galambposta / DovetalenPippa Hennessy

The blizzard drawing a snow curtainover Nottingham’s day-to-day concerns.One artist taking another’s armas we all walk together down sandstone stepsiced to provoke another tumble.

Warmth soaking through bones,hot chocolate with a shot of mintand histories of long-dead or never-lived people.Watching twenty-five people writehearing them speak words I don’t knowbut understanding all the same.

I can’t frame these words in a photographand that is precious in itself.

Counting again and againto twenty-fourto elevento thirteen.

Learning to count in Hungarian:egy, kettő, három, négy, öt,

rounding my lips.The smile on a German face when I sayelf, zwölf, for a change, on the bus.The blank look on the driver’s facewhen I ask for twenty-five day tickets.Writing friendly words on that blankness.

Wearing a hat for an evening,a black hat with a pink ribbon.Reading broken Englishfrom the back of a Robin Hood postcard.

Saying goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásrasee you again, soon.

A hóvihar fehér függönnyel borítjaNottingham hétköznapi gondjait.Egy művész karon fog egy másikat,miközben leóvakodnak a homokkő lépcsőketborító jégrétegen, nehogy elessenek.

Csontig hatoló kellemes meleg,forró csoki, mentával ízesítveés rég halott vagy sohasem is élt emberek történetei.Huszonöt szorgalmasan író ember látványa,akik általam ismeretlen szavakat mondanak,amiket mégis értek.

Ezeket a szavakat nem rögzíti fényképés ez már maga értékes dolog.

Újra meg újra elszámolokhuszonnégyig,tizenegyig,tizenháromig.

Tanulom a számokat magyarul:„egy, kettő, három, négy, öt”,

kerekítem az ajkam. Mosolyra derülő német arc,amikor ezúttal „elf, zwölf...” a létszám.A buszsofőr értetlen, üres tekintete,amikor huszonöt napijegyet kérek.Barátságos szavakkal teleírni az ürességet.

Egy estére kölcsönkapott kalap –fekete, széles rózsaszín szalaggal.Kerékbetört angol mondatokegy Robin Hood-os képeslap hátoldalán.

És végül goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra...nemsokára.

(translated by Juli Károlyi)


The blizzard drawing a snow curtainover Nottingham’s day-to-day concerns.One artist taking another’s armas we all walk together down sandstone stepsiced to provoke another tumble.

Warmth soaking through bones,hot chocolate with a shot of mintand histories of long-dead or never-lived

people.Watching twenty-five people writehearing them speak words I don’t knowbut understanding all the same.

I can’t frame these words in a photographand that is precious in itself.

Counting again and againto twenty-fourto elevento thirteen.

Learning to count in Hungarian:egy, kettő, három, négy, öt,

rounding my lips.The smile on a German face when I sayelf, zwölf, for a change, on the bus.The blank look on the driver’s facewhen I ask for twenty-five day tickets.Writing friendly words on that blankness.

Wearing a hat for an evening,a black hat with a pink ribbon.Reading broken Englishfrom the back of a Robin Hood postcard.

Saying goodbye, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásrasee you again, soon.

Der Sturm zieht einen Vorhang aus Schneeüber Nottinghams Alltagsangelegenheiten.Ein Künstler reicht dem anderen den Arm,als wir gemeinsam die Sandsteinstufen hinabsteigen,welche eisig einen Fall herausfordern.

Wärme durchdringt die Knochen,heiße Schokolade mit einem Schuss Minzeund Geschichten von lang verstorbenen oder niemals

gewesenen Menschen.Fünfundzwanzig Leuten beim Schreiben zusehen,sie Worte sagen hören, die ich nicht kenne,und sie dennoch verstehen.

Ich kann diese Worte nicht auf einem Foto festhaltenund das ist in sich selbst schon kostbar.

Immer wieder und wieder zählenbis vierundzwanzigbis elfbis dreizehn.

Ungarisch zählen lernen:egy, kettő, három, négy, öt,

meine Lippen rundend.Das Lachen auf einem deutschen Gesicht, wenn ich,zur Abwechslung elf, zwölf im Bus sage.Der verwirrte Gesichtsausdruck des Busfahrers,als ich ihn um fünfundzwanzig Tagestickets bitte.Ich schreibe freundliche Worte auf sein Starren.

Einen Abend lang einen Hut tragen,einen schwarzen mit einer rosanen Schleife.Gebrochenes English lesenauf der Rückseite einer Robin Hood Postkarte.

Goodbye sagen, auf wiedersehen, viszontlátásra,wir sehen uns, bald.

(translated by Katarina Kokstein)

dovetail - gedok karlsruhe · the dovetail project gives people in nottingham, ... too many books,...

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