• Originals – VI

    This week we welcome back Mike Burman as a contributor and also Harry Patte-Dobbs, both in the School of English here at Nottingham. Despite coming to the end of their final years at UoN they’re still producing some great poetry! Last Remarks Cold rain and regret in this town. The only...
  • Originals – V

    Following a return to lectures and worrying for future plans, Originals provides a welcome break to the start of Spring term. Disillusionment of Ten O Clock The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with...
  • Originals – IV

    In the past 3 Originals we have given a brief explanation of the poems featured, however this time I want to provide a collection of festive or seasonal poetry that should just be enjoyed and perused at your leisure. Wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Winter Song –...
  • Arts Room 101: Music in Musicals

    Although this could have been written by IMPACT Music, I felt that the topic is centred around flaws when applied specifically to musicals, which falls squarely within the Arts. Also although the argument I am going to present is going to be scathing, it must be noted that I do...
  • Originals – III

    The Space – Peter Rylands How often do we rush to be inside? Away from the rain, The cold, The space. It may be but a moment, To sit at the platform, Waiting to confine myself amongst the carriage walls, But here – is space! The cold! The rain! I’d...
  • Arts Room 101 – Pretentious Poetry

    We’ve all been there at one time or another – whether it’s staring blankly at a GCSE anthology or sitting with your head in your hands in Hallward library, we have faced a poem that makes no conceivable sense. Staring incredulously at the mass of adjectives, desperately trying to find...
  • Originals – II

    The Day after the Dead Before – Peter Rylands Time for the dead of night to rise and have its hour, Inside an ocean whose tides never cease and groan from the moon’s waxing power. Dried blood and hollow faces, haunting the streets, Where the sun shall rise for mortals...