Wild Court

An international poetry journal based in the English Department of King’s College London

KCL student poets: Florence Sandelson, Leyla Hasso, Helen Soulsby


Florence Sandelson


    Desert Island


my grandfather was on Desert Island Discs.
Your voice came out of the radio dad had dusted off
and propped up on the kitchen table and you told
everyone your tuppence on survival. Interviewer
loved it when you bought up Beethoven. Symphony to remind
you that everything was beautiful and vast and grand and big things,
like that. He lapped it up
you were breathing money. Then you needed some songs
I did not know them. They were haunting.
I thought
you would be depressed
alone on a desert island
listening to this miserable music.

But then, you said
what you really needed was a recording
of my grandmother’s voice. Her
high lovely calm voice curling
round your body.
Like a shadow, like a God
holding words
You’re safe
You’re not alone.

At the funeral
we listened to the miserable music
you claimed to have liked. A grandparent’s
death is a funny thing. It is
my mother’s
grief filtering through the stained-glass
a beginning undoing
an ending with the commonest
sadness -

Then we played
your disc. You’re safe,
you’re not alone, you said,
and we replayed that bit
over, over.
Your voice shifted
the weight
of the world
off my shoulders.
You were right,
I thought.
There you were,
beyond the grave,
still being right.



Leyla Hasso


    The Pilgrimage of the X68



Gladys’ voice was a police siren
as I got on, its waves rippled down the stairs
with increasing intensity until, like always, I plopped myself behind her.
Big mistake- Christian Doppler would’ve argued why.
I never understood who she was berating,
nor who was under her surveillance,
for she spoke a language that I did not, yet
I always tried to listen.

One day she closed the case and cradled her hands in her lap,
and so, I lowered my music.
We’d only past one stop before the
incessant ringing
made me jump. I increased my volume.
I’d put too much faith in Gladys.


Malcolm just happened to always be in the middle,
his emerald-brimmed hat masking
the gaunt face it decorated.
His grey eyes met mine on occasion,
but returned to their pit of despair- no, or
Malcolm was an enigma to me,
I knew that he wasn’t happy,
for I could not judge what his story was
except that transit was limbo.

But last week when he stepped one foot on the pavement,
he lit a cigar and inhaled deeply, so I thought,
this must be why.


Marsha was a peacock,
fit with ruffling feathers and a slick ponytail
that shone in the sun.
Her steady hand painted her face, day in, day out,
and I wondered whether the extra sleep
was worth it? Any error would ruin her portrait,
and she was too prestige for such a folly.

No. Marsha would never make a mistake,
her graceful hands drew in colour
on her face in the manner of a conductor
to an orchestra,
who knew the beauty of her symphony.


I sigh in tranquillity, my head resting on the cool window
when London strolls by
as I breathe out my surroundings,
captured inside my heart like a lover in a locket.
I clutch my chest tightly.



Helen Soulsby




What has changed?
I still surrender to that damp earth smell,
unique to open-air theatres and flower beds,
I still gaze at the seven amber stars,
that flicker in unison as they light the street,
dotting the same black and blue clouds I’ve always painted.
Time has begun to be measured by hair growth,
the grass is the only thing being cut,
It begs you to mould your head
into its summery trim, wishing you would star-gaze with it,
one more time.
I still hear the whistle of owls in the empty evenings,
walking through the bracken at midnight,
listening only to their song, and the beck
that plays piano out of tune
for its woodland audience -
guttural croaks and rustling whoops,
I still look out over lush hills, populated by sheep,
and I still wonder which route I’ll take the dog today,
just not near the town.