Creative Writing, Prose

When the Green Meets the Red, White and Blue

by Monim Wains I was born green, but thrown into red, white and blue. Two tsunami waves crashing into a grey ten-tonne wall. Tall and loud, rushing and gushing with full force right at me. Two oceans, continent-sized, pushing into each other. A ridge of mountains right between my lungs.  You must stay home, says […]

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Comment, Prose

Old Habits Die Hard

by Monim Wains Perhaps the most comprehensive definition of tradition is the idiom in the title of this article; tradition is nothing but old habits that refuse to stay in the past where they first began. Of course, this sounds quite critical. With the constant need for change and improvement in the world, old habits […]

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Comment, Prose

The Paradox of Tradition

by Zixin Jiang At Oriel Choir this term, we are trying to revive (or rather, revive the enforcement of) the tradition of wearing cassocks (those red things we wear) during rehearsals before a service. I knew this was something we were supposed to do, but I never really knew why. Apparently, the point is to […]

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Comment, Prose

A Word from the Editors: Tradition

by Michael Angerer Modernity is the central tenet of our age, which likes to classify itself as ‘post-modern’, ‘post-colonial’, and ‘post-truth’; we tend to look upon tradition as stuffy, out-dated, and generally irrelevant to what our everyday lives should be. As you might have guessed from the presence of this column, however, there is far […]

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Humour, Prose

‘Dear Beary…’

Beary McBearface, treasured Oriel mascot and JCR staple, is here to help you with your troubles. In this column,  Beary will attempt to find solutions to your little college worries; trust him, he’s seen it all. All you need to do is email thepoorprint@oriel.ox.ac.uk with the subject line ‘Dear Beary’, and if you’re lucky your […]

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Poetry

Two Hours and One Minute in the Bottom of the Sky

by Tom Saer I found some orange peel, carrot peel, on the pavement, left for Chester Burnett… Peeling off the snow from a branch I leave it to fall over me. My hands, a change, a pretty Sun in them, press on the snowman’s belly, he collapsed before I got there; he was rigid, the […]

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