Wakefield: Heaven, Purgatory or Hell?

From Isolation, via Education,

to Harmony
These images were submitted by members of the
public in response to a call for photographs
which recalled in some way the various
communities described by the great Italian poet,
Dante, in his Divine Comedy. There Hell is
characterised by isolation, Purgatory by
education, and Paradise by perfect community.

The project was coordinated by the Leeds Centre for

Dante Studies (University of Leeds) in collaboration
with the Cathedral’s Education Department.
 Hell: Isolation
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE CITY OF WOE, 'We have come to where I said
THROUGH ME THE WAY TO EVERLASTINGyou would see the miserable sinners
who have lost the good of the intellect.'
PAIN,
And after he had put his hand on mine
THROUGH ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST.
with a reassuring look that gave me comfort,
JUSTICE MOVED MY MAKER ON HIGH. he led me toward things unknown to man.
DIVINE POWER MADE ME, Now sighs, loud wailing, lamentation
WISDOM SUPREME, AND PRIMAL LOVE. resounded through the starless air,
BEFORE ME NOTHING WAS BUT THINGS so that I too began to weep.
ETERNAL, Unfamiliar tongues, horrendous accents,
AND ETERNAL I ENDURE. words of suffering, cries of rage, voices
loud and faint, the sound of slapping hands --
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE.
all these made a tumult, always whirling
These words, dark in hue, I saw inscribed in that black and timeless air,
over an archway. And then I said: as sand is swirled in a whirlwind.
'Master, for me their meaning is hard.'  
And he, as one who understood: (Inferno III, 1-30)
'Here you must banish all distrust,
here must all cowardice be slain.
 Hell: The Streets of Me
I believe in Hell more than I believe in Heaven. Though I walk in the shadow of the spire of the
I see the names of the streets of Hell Cathedral,
on the inside of my eyelids, yet I will fear no evil, yea, for
as I fall asleep. I dream of them it has all been done already.
as I dream of the endless loss of love And I look for no solace while
and of looking on that loss with no surprise. I smell the piss in the subway
  and remember the smell of myself.
I catch the 110 into town, through  
those same named streets, past the grey There is no transport but a circle;
crumpled shoebox of The Hepworth, the Free City Bus running round forever,
and I wonder how art can live there. and the station with its machines clickety tickety,
Outside the Ridings I hear shouts of where the only change will be small change.
Big Issue sellers mingled with slow grumbles from the Though I step outside my semi-detached,
traffic. I am never detached from the Streets of Me.
   
 
Michael Yates
 WFI 3BD
Minuscule vintage-woven nest, Fall and fracture.
cheek by jowl with stars Hospitalised, anaesthetised, immobilised;
and leaf canopy. dramatic decline, decisions discussed.
Fell. Empathic care at Pinderfields.
Suspended in no-man’s land, She passed away: 8 May 2014
in twilight zone. Coroner, Registrar, Undertaker, Flowers, Funeral: tick.
Resolved return home. Is the service safe? requires improvement.
Crumble. Is the service responsive? requires improvement.
Find safe alternative, Is the service well-led? requires improvement.
Breaches regulations 13, 17 Health & Social Care Act 2008.
for sunnier times
So she’s dead as earth.
sheltered by Sycamores.
She’s gone for ever.
Care.
My grief lies by ashes
She didn’t like it.
on undertaker’s pending shelf.
Too big and busy, 721 days on – closure not in sight.
inside the Orchard. Orchard Care won’t have an Auntie Blossom.
Confused. We did have.
Orchard Care, a bloomy Paradise?
Who cares?
 Trenches
They gave us no lessons on digging
Yet they expect a neat, tidy trench
In it you stand.
Over ankles in mud and urine and blood
looking out over no man's land
Either men or shells always screaming
The noise more a din than a sound
earth flies in fountains, flung far and wide
rocking and shaking the ground
Ask them back home what we are doing
I bet they don't know why we're here
There are rats near a corpse, there's a letter
Dog eared, well read, it's from home
Tear stained the letter begins "Dear John"
He is abandoned all hope gone.
It really doesn't matter which conflict
Always suffering and pain
soldiering on we have all been and gone
And still they say "Never again"

Laurie Gilbert
 If Heaven’s too Bright
What if deeds are never good if friends are really foes
if water’s thicker than blood if doors are always closed
if dreams should not be chased if sense cannot prevail
if there’s an end to space if trying always fails
if grief does not dilute if red hands never caught 
if lies are better than truth if life is not too short
if no roads lead to Rome if clouds don’t have a lining
if nothing’s sweet at home if twice struck by lightning
if horror doesn’t frighten if no sights for sore eyes
if suffering doesn’t enlighten if cats don’t have nine lives
if prayers are never heard if two wrongs make a right
if blondes are not preferred if heaven’s too bright?
 
 
Angie de Courcy Bower
 Purgatory: Education
At my other side were the shades in prayer This it seemed to me I heard in answer
who, through those dreadful seams, farther along from where I stood,
were wringing tears that bathed their cheeks. and I made myself heard by moving
I turned to them and I began: closer.
'O people assured of seeing light on high— Among the rest I saw a shade that looked
sole object stirring your desire— expectant,
'so grace may soon dissolve the scum and if any should ask 'how?', it was raising
that fouls your conscience, and the stream its chin the way a blind man does.
of memory flow through it pure, 'Spirit,' I said, 'who abase yourself to
climb,
'tell me, for I shall hold it courteous and dear,
if you were the one who answered me,
if any soul among you is Italian.
make yourself known by your city or your
Perhaps for me to know might profit such a
name.'
one.’
'I was of Siena,' replied the shade,
'O my brother, all of us are citizens
'and with these others here I mend my
of the one true city. What you mean to say is,
sinful life,
"who, while still a pilgrim, lived in Italy."'
weeping to Him that He may lend Himself
to us.’
 
(Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio XIII, 82-111)
 Purgatorio
We kicked off at mid-day, me and my guide – And choked with laughter. Now it was like all
I woke, stiff as a bread-stick, on the floor – The walls, the ceiling and the roof were flames
With two Red-Bulls, leftover Southern-Fried Consuming us both. We just had strength to crawl
And after that two Fosters. Then two more Out to the nearest Offie. To our shames
While taking turns to play Assassin's Creed We bought some Spice and smoked it round the back.
On – was it the X-Box or the PS4? Whooosh! I enjoyed a hundred thousand Names,
Well, that was when we started on the weed – Was temple, crowd and Icon, was The Mack
My guide does, on the side, a little dealing – Returned – resplendent – for a few short hours
His dividend smelt very good indeed Then something in my body screamed Attack!
And I suspect we shared the same appealing And down I tumbled, like the Twin Towers.
Getting-It-On-While-Listening-to-Marvin-Gaye- Though hands came to assist me, I was sick
Singing-"Let's Get It On" - type of feeling, Half in a bin, half in a bed of flowers,
Descending in this fug for half a day My throat an abattoir, my brain a brick
Until we switched up to Oranjeboom. Thrown in a washing machine – I didn't know
After that we lost the easy way High from low, but I needed a pick-me-up quick.
And things got daft; I fell around the room,  
Knocked over the TV, punched the wall,  
Pretended to have anal with the broom
We found a club called Paradiso Meant something final came at me instead,
From which House music poured, dry ice and smoke. Connecting very neatly with my jaw
The bouncer never looked, said "In you go". As bodies clambered into the affray
It didn't take us long to find a bloke And that was me. Out. Stars were all I saw.
Dressed up like undercover C.I.D Laid on a plastic mattress the next day
Who sold my guide and I two bags of coke I tried to clear my head, to no avail.
And minutes later, noses straightened, we The Sergeant said "Step up, Cassius Clay" –
Emerged into a club where darkness glittered Reply to caution – None – and gave me bail
And the floor shook with a carnal ecstasy. To stand before the magistrates next week.
Everything fitted. Everything was permitted. My guide has vanished, possibly to jail,
Double Jack and Red-Bull in my hand My prospects looking either bad or bleak.
Told me that all was well – but then this shit-head Waiting is Hell. Unalterable Law,
Grabbed my neck and, barking some command, Only your power can change it now. Please. Speak.
Dragged me toward the doors. I should've said  
"Excuse me Sir, you fail to understand…"   Paul Crossley
But my glass was already swinging for his head.
It didn't land, though Newton's Final Law
 Stop
Marooned at night. Pinned and drained;
Imploring distant light. in limbo, with a tortured brain. 
Scanning places, All trust is crushed
strangers’ faces, and hope superfluous.
snared in icy line. This agony I must transcend,
Treading time. allow my febrile hate to bend:
And in our strife suspend such disregard
one unfurls the details of his life so injury cannot be carved.
as if to keep us warm. Become serene;
We are forlorn; become as glass just cleaned.
in box of sighs,  
dehumanised. Suddenly an arm is thrust
To stay, or relocate? and heart revives beneath its crust.
I vacillate… Finally a sign for us:
  all’s forgiven; here’s the bus!
But moving off might jinx my stake,  
am forced to wait…  
 Purgatory: The Full-time Course

HND (top-up) in  
Caring, industry-led. Now it seems to me I did know:
  my words were arrows shot across sunlight,
I sit or stand in the classroom, falling blind, falling short,
sometimes one side, sometimes the other, falling wide, without point
sometimes the student, sometimes the teacher, in Margaret Street.
always the ignorant, always alone
in the Waterton Building. Level 4 certificate,
  latest software.
Higher Diploma,  
Guilt Management. With the help of self-assessment,
  the mercy of a Personal Tutor,
And I stop and listen to my voice. I still dream I will graduate,
 Working Life
Black phlegm
Coughed up streaked with blood
Something the suits never understood
Dust the killer
If you lived long enough
Widows, orphans for gain they make
Money down south; Only graft I see
Ah, but the camaraderie
Far apart from the ruling misters
Work place brothers and their sisters
You can keep your share of ill gotten gain
I would rather the suffering and the pain
For I am proud and justly right
A good days work and they take fright
Still not satisfied
Our work they steal
Sell us out for better deal
 
 
Laurie Gilbert
 Community of Hope
Invisibility was the one skill he learned at school.
In maths he counted backwards until he was a zero;
in art his body disappeared behind camouflage paint;
and in music he occupied the space between notes
because if he could go from being a someone to a no-one
then he could pass unnoticed beneath the eye of tormentors.
 
When he graduated he moved to the anonymity of the city;
walked through narrow terraced streets and crowded malls;
sat in dive bars and coffee shops next to other social outcasts
where silence was the only communication needed for comfort
and where the potential to go from being a no-one to a someone
started to re-colour his life and lend strength to his voice.
 
Yet some threads can never be broken from afar.
It wasn’t until he finally returned to his hometown
that he found a knife sharp enough to sever the links
to his bruised teenage exile, and in this newfound release
he was ready to accept the hands of friendship he was offered,
knowing that at last he’d found his community of hope.
  Susan Darlington
 Purgatory: A Place of Pilgrimage

They come in silence Here are His people, their crosses

to kiss Christ’s feet, as He hangs concealed under everyday faces.
nailed to the wooden cross.  Here is belief: a community praying
Sunlight is flooding the place. each for the other, pilgrims, in a world
In a line they come: they are bringing that is suffering. Spare, Lord, your people.
their sorrows, bringing the sadness But no one is spared as we stoop
some know like a landscape, for this blessing, this unspoken sharing.
bringing the maps of their pain. Love begins us, lights us.
  We are learning, stumbling, trusting,
Here is a widowed father, that the One crucified, knows our pain.
here the lonely, the just-out-of prison,  
here the grievously sick and the anxious,  
here the lovers, parents and infants, here Josie Walsh
are the unemployed young, their hopes
lessened by scarce prospects.
 Paradise: Harmony
Along with the other shades, she smiled, so that our wills combine in unity.
then answered me with so much gladness 'Therefore our rank, from height to height,
she seemed alight with love's first fire: throughout this kingdom pleases all the kingdom,
'Brother, the power of love subdues our will as it delights the King who wills us to His will.
so that we long for only what we have 'And in His will is our peace.
and thirst for nothing else. It is to that sea all things move,
'If we desired to be more exalted, both what His will creates and that which nature
our desires would be discordant makes.'
with His will, which assigns us to this place. Then it was clear to me that everywhere in
'That, as you will see, would not befit these circles heaven
if to be ruled by love is here required is Paradise, even if the grace of the highest
Good
and if you consider well the nature of that love.
does not rain down in equal measure.
'No, it is the very essence of this blessèd state
 
that we remain within the will of God,
(Dante Alighieri, Paradiso III, 67-90)
 Full Circle
Urged by a deep, insistent need this impetus, this residue,
I searched for where my soul could feed had been my ache, my wordless cue.
and found a certain town which stirred And I was matched to primal coil
some recognition years had blurred. as plough which sings in soil:
Though instinct had no proof as thirsty slaked by source,
I sensed its wiser truth… as woman kissed by choice,
Then native lore unpicked the plan, as climber safely pinned,
unwrapping gift of who I am: as crop all gathered in,
that mandate had been hurled in time, as ship to berth,
sgraffitoed down blood line, as moon to earth,
to lay its ancient claim, as poetry, as prose,
its miracle, its game, as predisposed.
to steer my dreaming life Full circle; closed.
to where my seed had been derived!  
   
And imprint was revealed: Angie de Courcy Bower
here was the code by which to heal;
 Paradise: In Cathedral Square

Paradise is other people. to turn into words. And words I wanted

They smile and tell me they’re happy. to become a reality.
I see the disfigurement of one,  
feel the shame of another, Ay, there’s the rub, as we poets say.
hear the high-pitched laughter of a third Wanting heaven. My kind of Heaven.
and suspect the octaves of deceit. Is that where I always go wrong?
  And will the words – my words in this
Happy clappy humanoids. vacuous verse or the words of all those others –
I’d grown to hate their sound, convince me otherwise?
counting it mechanical at best,  
or pretty propaganda, Well, well. A new day.
sculpting delusion from despair. Trinity Walk and The Ridings.
But today I saw the Cathedral all around me There’s shopping to be done.
  Michael Yates
 
in the windows of Boots, the mirrored walls of  
BHS. Michael Yates
Commerce and Christ, I thought,
this same old world and… what?
I was struck by an image I wanted
 The City at a Distance
On a cold and frosty morning
When you are neither up nor down Somewhere in the eighties In a place where
You may see this city for what it is politicians play
An orphan child among the worthy They stole its heart away
It seldom appears on weather maps  Drew lines across its postcodes
Never on football league tables Deposed its county seat
No one living in Lanzarote Disposed of what it could not afford
Plans a trip from glossy brochures Deprived of what it could not hold
At the crossroads of two motorways Depart King Cotton. Depart King Coal
It seems by-passed by both Four horsemen came-a-riding
Its ancient castle, its modern hospital Rough shod, merciless, over the hill
Masquerade by other names Closure, Demolition, Dispersal, Landfill
  Decline could not be declined
The regeneration generation On that cold and frosty morning
Put their faith in future glories You may see through history's mist
While those who remember what is lost Shrouding this nursery-rhyme town
Only sigh at their small aspiration A wealth that pays no heed to money
A town planners sketchbook A running seam of richness
Scribbled on, rubbed out, redrawn Footsteps on pathways, voices on the air
Following the money-go-round Sculpture living in hands of people
Ambiguous redevelopment New music growing and dancing
Gravel pits to beauty spots A place for painters, poets, artists all
Green belt land to new car lots And rarely, in an occasional hush
Redefines itself as near to this or part of that The tallest spire, a dying prince
Defers to bigger, believed better And a mulberry bush
   
 
Peter Bedford
With thanks to the photographers

Ellen Barraclough
Stephen Bennett
Darren Briscoe
Barbara Butler
Rebecca Drury
Charlotte Harvey
Helen Jones
Christian McGrath
Lauren Salisbury
Richard Wainwright