Sabotage

-Reviewed by Alana Tomlin–

Astronaut brings a brief assortment of poetry and short prose from, the title implies, ‘outer space’. What this actually means is that it is writing brought together in a clean, refreshing way – young writers, and new ideas. As always, being a first issue, it faces the challenge of being noticed and, even harder, to be bought and read. In response to this the magazine’s overt association with ‘outer space’ perhaps indicates that the editor, Charlotte Henson, realises that a new magazine’s primary duty is to explore ‘alien’ literary territory, and to be proud to publish what is discovered there. The alien here is by no means experimental or avant-garde; it is a space sometimes hinting at the surreal, just beyond the boundaries of what can still be interpreted as mainstream or traditional writing, and ‘alien’ writers who have not yet been published in dozens…

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COVER RELEASED AND LINE-UP ANNOUNCED

Poetry by featured poet Max Wallis, along with poems from Harry Man, Raymond Antrobus, Daniel Sluman, Nicola Gledhill, Melissa Lee-Houghton, Jamie Baxter, Matt Haigh, Joshua Seigal and Anthony Arnott, with illustrations by Leanne Bridgewater and Sophie Gainsley

Review of Astronaut Zine

Review of Astronaut Zine.

What makes you happy?

Thanks to Steph Fellows, Sarah Leavesley, John Coopey, Nika Cobbett, Anna Percy, Mark Stevens, Bobby Parker, Tom Sweet, P.R. McDowell and Tim Wells.

books, clouds, comics, walks in forgotten places, certain people, the peach flavour Lipton’s iced tea, Manchester, cider, more peaches, the people who aren’t afraid to be common, those with a revolution on their minds, frenzied painting on massive canvases, playing There is a Light That Never Goes out when drunk on buses, the day after the night before, coming up with a genius line, that music that makes you contented-happy, half-hearted doodles that actually look pretty good, unexpected poems, piecing together plans, mixed fruit cider, Sambuca, Northerners, the unexpectedly nice people, creating, the people it’s safe to drop your guard around, good poetry, good company, well-timed periods of solitude, being in a place/headspace where things can make me happy: my boys, sunshine, water, creativity, cider, laughter, poetry, laughter, good music (with highly subjective caveats), forgetting how old I am, clever, moving films like American Beauty, Donnie Darko, Cosmopolis, silly/giggling teenage films like Dude, Where’s My Car or Rocky Horror Show, mental stimulation, walking in the rain, creativity, mulled wine, swimming, spontaneity within restrained damage limitation constraints, messing around with words, messing around with colours, beautiful things/people/landscapes/artworks, my boys’ carefree smiling faces, sheds, laying in the sun, writing, reading a new book or an old one I haven’t seen in a while, penguins, coming home after being away for a while, seeing my friends, talking to people I haven’t seen in a while, making plans to spend time with my friends, things that taste of elderflower, cordial, wine, lavender ice cream, rose lemonade, curling up in bed on a cold day, going out and having fun, new book smell, old book smell, Narnia, Libraries- especially when they’re my own, a new script, boyfriends and best friends, Skyrim at midnight in my boyfriends bed, stealing his cocopops, gym, handing work in on time, finishing essays, talking to squirrels, sitting with my dog, forests in summer, beaches, hot pavements- no shoes, junk food, good food, food, new ideas for stories, when no one sits next to me on the bus home at night, Manchester Piccadilly, walking through the market and hearing reggae, telling punters on Jack the Ripper tours ‘it’s all made up’, girls with price tags on the soles of their shoes, being with Salena behind the bins, version excursion, pie and mash and liquor, drinks served by Geri Lynn Daniel, poems that punch, poems that tickle, boobs, seeing a droog, Northern Soul records, New English Library pulp novels, dandelion and burdock, Jason King saying ‘fancy’, looking the business, kung fu films, well turned out skinhead girls, darts walk ons, an Ulster woman losing her temper, Hammer House of Horror, dancing to rocksteady, looking the business, a wink from a sort, music hall songs, the underdog winning, gigging, pyjama weekends, insulting toffs, Sarah Jones’ T I M W E L L S knuckle tattoos, westerns, lager top, victory, the Golden Heart, finding choons in dusty shops, Isaac Bashevis Singer books, Brick Lane Beigel Bake, my troublesome daughter, Angel Delight, the TLS, Sgt Bilko, getting to the toilet in time, new boots and panties, being wrong about someone, and them actually turning out to be magic, stories of solidarity, realising you’re happy in that ‘moment’, dens, when things work out for someone you deeply care about, when someone says they’ll never forget you, and you know they mean it, pictures of Yellowstone national park, pictures of last summer, feeling fifteen, feeling twelve, perfect eighties, or eighties inspired, synthesizer driven electronic riffs, finding a leather jacket that fits, not feeling like you’ve wasted your time after finishing playing a video-game (because it was so emotive and embracing and moving), finding out two or more famous people you massively admire were in some way connected before they became recognized, chiptune, ska, getting lost in London, when you look about a group of people you love and they all look happy, picnics in parks, Ecstasy, when you cuddle someone and your bodies fit together perfectly (but really any cuddles),  the smell of the person you like, the smell of kittens, talking to someone until you are so exhausted you simply can’t (when not even under the influence of anything), when you recommend a movie to someone and they actually love it, climbing trees, thick socks, Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum, playing with friendly dogs, giving up seats on public transport, meeting people on public transport, Studio Ghibli, genuine smiles from strangers, when people in suits don’t just apathetically ignore homeless people, riding on shopping trolleys, Doc Martens, Growing your hair kinda long, then hacking it short, religious people who are deeply questioning of their beliefs, unexpected inexpensive gifts that just reminded that person of you, festivals, handstands, The French Alps, good humous and white pitta bread, when an article is spot on, the smell of paraffin, warm sand between your toes, the “Bus wankers!” scene on Inbetweeners, good books, films/movies which turn out to be better than expected (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) & ones with touching moments which end in a thought provoking scene beautifully shot like Inside I’m Dancing, writing, hearing/reading a poem by someone which exceeds ones they’ve done before & having that “Wow” moment, friends, meeting or speaking to people who share my views/thoughts/interests, the times I’m active creatively (other times are “down-time” for a reason), dreaming, staring at something strange in the distance, my family and friends when they are happy, eavesdropping, wondering what could be lurking in the dark when the street-lights fail, trying to figure out what that noise is that’s coming from next-door, clapping along with the really happy people who get drunk and touch each other and rant about Jesus in the town centre and sometimes cry out for Him, looking at clouds, walking through abandoned factories, peeping through the dark windows of haunted houses, riding on trains past housing estates that have seen better days, talking to strangers on telephones that hiss, checking that loved ones are still breathing and finding out they are, falling over on the beach, ghost stories told by salty old sea dogs, cheese before bed, cats, UFOs, reading about cults, night time love, day time love, scary love, silly love and all the colours in my art box.

— what makes you happy?

Now accepting submissions!

Issue 1 now available from the ‘Previous issues’ page!

Now accepting submissions!

ASTRONAUT BLASTS OFF

LONDON
16th February, 2013

The timetable at the train station tells me my train isn’t due until 20:23. I’m running late. Very. By the time we leave Stoke Newington station and roll into Mascara Bar for the Astronaut launch it’s getting on a bit. I’m feeling pretty antsy about being late for my own gig, but everyone’s kicking back and seems to be having a good time. Perhaps it was a good idea to let the drinks flow first. I greet my fellow Astronites, grab a few fistfuls of Astronaut from my bag and arrange them into what I think might be an attractive display before totally ruining it to try and sell a few copies before the start. It doesn’t take much. The copies fly out surprisingly easy and I’m feeling pretty good by the time Tim Wells is preparing the room for the first poet with a few poems of his own.

Anna Le sets a romantic tone for the evening with a couple of love poems. There’s even one “with stars mentioned” to keep with the spacey theme. Being on first is tough and Anna handles it with ease. Next up is Rowena Knight, who reads her poem ‘Dare’ from the zine. She follows this up with her take on the Findus horsemeat scandal, which can be read on the Morning Star website here: http://www.morningstaronline.co.uk/news/content/view/full/129446

During the break, flying saucers are offered from a pint glass and zines are bought and sold. Drinks are flowing and so is conversation. There’s a woman dancing. The whole event is DJ’d by Dave Bryant and Jody Porter, who I’m told kept this up well into the early hours of the morning, so many thanks for that. I decide it’s best to just relax, do a bit of dancing of my own, and catch up with people I know on Facebook that I’d never met in person. Tim is psyching up for the start of the next half.

Emlyn Hugill demands a lively start to this half of the evening by commanding the stage burst into flame. The stage doesn’t listen, thank god. But he does succeed in commanding the stage. He’s followed by Katie Seth, who shares her story ‘Arthur’ from the zine, and explains the imagined similarities between humans and turtles. Lastly, Jon Stone is the final reader from the zine, reading ‘Benevolence’. He also has a thing or two to say about cocks (no, not the birds).

It’s getting on a bit and people are having to go home, so we lose a couple of Astronites. The change is barely perceptible though, as the remaining crowd ups their volume and energy levels to compensate. I’ve run out of flying saucers and zines.

The final acts of the evening perform to a small but dedicated crowd. Filthy Nevs opens the final part of the evening with bombast, reminding us that perhaps Tesco not having the sandwich you want isn’t the worst thing happening in the world.  Chip Grim brings the East London pub to a pin-drop silence; no mean feat. With that, the music starts up again and that’s the end of the first Astronaut launch. That’s it. We’ve blasted off. I finish my drink and shuffle about in an awkward attempt at dancing to celebrate. We thank people for coming. I check the time and have to head to South-West London so I can’t stop. Last I heard, the celebration continued on into the night.

MANCHESTER
The next day.

If I was really, really late for the London launch, I’ve learnt my lesson and arrived six hours early for the Manchester one. I linger around until about 6 when I head to Sandbar to waste some time playing board games. At quarter past seven, I enquire about the space so I can start setting up. My stomach drops. The events man hasn’t booked us in, so we have no space. Overly-aggressive man in glasses spits out that he can reserve us a couple of tables and that’s the best he can do. He vaguely mentions a quiz or something next door. I spend half an hour flapping, panicking, making calls and self-medicating with jukebox music.

Investigating the tables, I spot Dave Viney, one of the performers. Jackie Hagan, the host, arrives, and we sort of arrange the tables into what could resemble a stage area (okay, it was pretty much all Dave’s work). He even tries hooking one of the swinging lights around a chain to make a spotlight. It doesn’t quite work out, but it’s a valiant effort nonetheless. By this point, I’ve realised some of the performers still haven’t turned up and we’re losing some people by being hidden around the corner. I’m trying not to stress about it, and mostly failing. Some performers and a small crowd turn up. I’m delayed selling zines because I’m freaking out and sales for that night are generally poor. Realising quite a few of our core performers are missing, I have a word with members of the audience I know are also poets and ask them if they’re like to perform. We add Zach Roddis and Miles Hadfield to the bill.

It’s starting to get on and people are itching to get started. As we explain that we don’t have a mic because we don’t have the room, so performers will have to properly project, music blasts from the doorway and a man starts bellowing questions impossibly loudly. Oh. Quiz. Yeah. Brilliant.

Zach Roddis starts the evening with a short story in which he attempts to control everyone’s lives. Many do not want to play golf. Rebecca Audra Smith reads her contribution ‘Sea and Breeze’ from the zine, along with some short poems about Picasso’s mistresses which raise the temperature of the room distinctly. Miley Cyrus (I mean, Miles Hadfield) could be heard over the quizmaster, telling us all about what sounded like a very eventful night out. Everyone makes a right royal racket as we head to the break just to get back at the twat of a quizmaster next door.

Despite my stressing, it doesn’t seem like people are having a bad time. In fact, the small crowd all seem pretty compatible with each other. Jackie reassures me that people are having a good time and I try to calm down a bit. I order a triple Sambuca and Coke at the bar only to be told that’s illegal and adjust my order to a double Sambuca and coke with a shot. I reckon it’s probably time to get started again.

Dave Viney kicks off the second half with the usual assured gusto (I particularly enjoyed ‘Mancs for the Memories’), and is followed by Sian S. Rathore. Sian shares a personal poem formed of fragments from her Twitter archive following the death of a close friend. Heckles are made regarding Burnley. Anna Percy is next, reading her poem ‘The Door in the Air’, from the zine along with several short poems from her pamphlet. Finally, Jackie Hagan wraps up the evening. We introduce a competition for a Kitkat (four finger, ba-dum tish), asking people to illustrate the covers of their zines. In the end, indecision rules and I throw the Kitkat in the air for the first person to grab. Rebecca Audra Smith hesitates not one iota.

Conversation carries on until the evening reaches a natural end.

Blast Off!

Astronaut Issue 1 hits Earth from the 16th January 2013. 

For Londoners, head over to Mascara Bar in Stamford Hill from 8 for music, Flying Saucers, good words and, of course, the bar (for over 18s, anyway). £4 entry includes sweets and a copy of the zine. 

For Mancunians, go instead to Sandbar, on February 17th 2013. Pretty much the same deal. 

Undiscovered: Chris Will Clark

Oyster

today is a kid’s patio chair
lying on the pavement, lopsided
apparel shuffle incredulously
past, forgotten in a footstep.

flies stick to porous surfaces,
waiting for light to dance
their collective being, constant
steady rhythms in electric beats.

swans on frozen platforms,
paired gloves swing in the wind
flying down river, departure
southbound.

sat down, spreading your legs
unlike over there, across the
way, there is no room left
for both of us.

sighing, watch heavy breath rise.

—

From the valleys of North East Scotland to the streets of London, Chris’ journey hasn’t been a traditional one. His experiences cultivate his imagination, forging narratives that weave through cities and dreams, questioning our nature of reality and the relationships people possess within it.

He regularly attends events within the London literary scene as a performer, London’s thriving culture has always appealed to him.

Chris’ main interest lies in understanding the engagement with the world, reality and to express and play with this through experimentation with different forms through his work.

Astronaut Writes: Biographies

This astronaut loved receiving your submissions. Really. Whenever a notification popped up on my computer, it filled me with a warm, glowing fuzz in my stomach (not mould, I promise). One thing I took a particular interest in was the biographies you guys wrote.

Biographies (or bios) are requested by most magazines or journals as a way of judging a person’s writing career and reputation (unless they’re anonymous), and the better it is, the better the impression you make. The best bios are usually short – about three sentences or so – and list achievements rather than interests. Finally, they are always (or should always) be written in third person.

Here’s a few tips on how to write a good bio:

• The third person is important. Astronaut can’t emphasize this enough; third person gives the impression of professionalism and makes sure you don’t sound too big-headed. Writing about yourself from an outside view is difficult, so practice by changing some of your writing from first to third person.
• Please don’t put down what you like to write about or who your influences are. This says nothing about what you’ve achieved as a writer and what you’ve been doing to progress your career. It’s like listing your hobbies in the job history section of a CV. List publications, performances, projects and collaborations.
• If you have quite a few publications, be selective. Only the best make the cut. Never list more than three.
• When you reach three sentences, think about wrapping it up. Don’t waste words and do stick to the facts.
• If you’re short of things to write about, it’s okay to mention where you’re from, education, writing projects you’re a part of and quirky facts about yourself. Humour can be a good thing in small doses as part of a bio, but don’t let it become gimmicky.

Here are some examples of good and bad biographies (they’re completely made up, so if there are any similarities to you, it’s coincidental):

Robert Smith is a poet and essayist living in London, England. He has written for The Squawker, Big Deal and This is Not A Magazine amongst others, and leads the Barnes Writing Initiative. He has a fondness for squid. 

Why this is good: It sticks to the facts, doesn’t go on too much and sounds professional. The last line could be better executed, but works as basic humour.

My name is Robert Smith and I live in London. I like to write poetry and sometimes essays and find myself mysteriously inspired at stupid hours in the morning. I read a lot of books and love reading and writing, especially books by people like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Rankin. I hope to achieve new heights with my writing and feel fame is within my reach if I work hard enough. I hope you will include me in your magazine because I think that I deserve some recognition for my work. 

Why this is bad: It’s too long, written in first person and attempts to emotionally manipulate the editor! There’s far too much waffle and subjectivity. Aside from this, it’s completely irrelevant to the purpose of the biography; it tells the reader nothing about the writer’s career.

So, my dear astronites, give bio writing a try. If you already have one, try writing a new one as an exercise, and do leave them in the comments section for us, or head over to the Facebook page  and tell us there!

(thanks to David Sands on the Facebook page for bringing the image to our attention)

Undiscovered: Momina Mela

Brown Girl

‘MashAllah’
Written in emerald calligraphy
Flickers wisely outside a restaurant,
Where people with skins of terracotta and copper
Flock to; their lavender talcum powder,
Suffusing through their silk and chiffon.

‘Bismillah’, ‘Alhamdullilah’, ‘InshAllah’
Trips from their breath,
In every exhalation,
As rosy tongues and snowy teeth
Peek through their coffee lips.

Ganesh’s trunk curls to one side,
Creating an airy passage to his unseen mouth,
As deemed proper of ‘the god who removes obstacles’.
The baby pink elephant,
Bedazzled in his godly jewels,
Peers at me through his kohled crescent eyes,
Behind the safe elbow of his servant,
A shopkeeper with skin like molasses,
Who thinks I am Indian
And laughs when I tell him I’m not.

They always try to guess my ‘nationality’,
That word that morphed three countries from one,
Which now colonize the speckled streets of London.
The fish and chip shops are now kebab shops,
And the steak houses are now curry palaces.

Everything is brown.

But my colour is still unknown,
My legs are beige, my arms sienna,
My face sometimes sandy, sometimes wheatish,

My body- a broad spectrum rainbow of brown.

Momina Mela is a second year English student at Goldsmiths, University of London, from Lahore, Pakistan. She enjoys writing about things she is familiar with; her grandparents, her identity and her experiences living in London.