by Siddiq Islam She was the blossom.Her pink, silken smile.And her peach-coloured joy.And her soft, petal style. She was the leavesAnd I couldn’t quite catch her.She dropped in the breezeAnd I just stood and watched her. She was the flowersI mushed in the mud.Her sap ran like tears.And she was the buds. And she was […]
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by Hamish Dodd ACROSS 1. Flowers left chess mob sorry to be so moved. (6,8) 9. Art Virgos, somehow high above us, wrote The Rite. (4,10) 10. Allusion changed slightly for deep respect. (9) 11. South Africa after uniform of country. (3) 13. Average day of this season to hear horse-like bullock. (6,7) 17. Genuine […]
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by Ayomikun Bolaji
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by David Maw In his lengthy debate poem Le Jugement dou Roy de Navarre, the poet–composer Guillaume de Machaut related his experience of the Black Death. Celestial portents, earthquakes, and bad weather heralded its coming. It provoked processions of flagellants, conspiracies about poisoned water and air, and the scapegoating of Jews. Its victims suffered bodily […]
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by Monim Wains
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by Beary McBearface 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. To contact him, all you have to do is emailthepoorprint@oriel.ox.ac.uk with the subject line ‘Dear Beary’. […]
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A PDF of the print version of Issue #76 – Spring – can be downloaded here.
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by Leo Gillard ‘Ready?’ Arthur asked, his eyes fixed on the building in front of them. It was… small. The garden was covered in weeds, the grass overgrown, leaves still on the ground from autumn. The house itself was built of red brick, a squat-looking bungalow with shuttered windows, the blue paint of the door […]
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by Monim Wains Crisp air blows at my hands and ears; spring breaks from winter. Some days that chill and others that mellow. Freshness surrounds me now; everything filtered with a screen of sunlight behind the clouds. The green grass is shaded a slight yellow, as if the air is coloured warm. My legs are […]
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by Jennifer Potter Clutching at cold tea, Recalling regurgitated emotion. A toast to our former selves, Sipping to transfer sentiment, Ease past pain. Each taste transporting to a coffee shop Artificially lit: maroon and sawdust and stilted conversation With a cup cradled in my hands like a shield, Anticipating effort echoing in emptiness. Every swallow […]
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The Poor Print 