The AnglerThe Angler
The Angler's Facebook page The Angler on Twitter The Angler magazine on LinkedIn


Behold, dear reader, the fruits of the labours of some of our talented first-year students, written during the Angler Workshop
on the Pre-Union Day in May 2017:

There once was a cat from Kent
Who wanted to catch a pheasant
He sang a sweet song
and the bird sang along
And that’s how they started a band
-- Charlotte van Driel

There was a young king of King’s Landing
Poison was what made his ending
He was hated by all
so they laughed with his fall
His family grieved, but his uncle was merely pretending
-- Lotje van Norren

To write a limerick or two,
is quite an easy thing to do.
Write some words down with a pen,
read your work over again,
and you will see that this fact is quite true.
-- Ellemijn Galjaard

Everything not related to elephants is
-- Irene Rozema

There was once an alien from Uranus
who had no idea what a man was
He arrived on planet Earth
and witnessed a birth
And screamed “Isn’t that supposed to come from your anus?”
-- Irene Rozema

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they make no sense
-- Irene Rozema

There once was a bird named Willow
who felt, in her cage, rather sad, so
away she had flown
into the unknown
until she crashed into a window
-- Feline van Dijl

Here I sit and still I doubt
what this tale should be about.
So let’s just write and write and write
for this pen does not incur fright.

It sets you free, it sets you loose
no matter what tale you choose,
so let’s just write and write and write
and pray you will hence see the light.

Even if there is no story
in it, there might still be glory.
So let’s just write and write and write
until you reach the final cite.
-- Jaime van der Meijs

You have a heart of steel in your chest
My mind is as cluttered as my kitchen sink
This poem is written in the most generic of inks
No, my petal, this is not a form of jest

Hearts are a fickle bunch
Beating swiftly at the feel of passion
Falling hard in a suicidal fashion
Yet, they run from treachery, only at the slightest hunch

But when I truly fell
I had my heart’s full accord
For I am truly it’s utter sovereign lord
Now my heart knows: all is well

By daily proof, you shall me find
To be to you both loving and kind
The heart you hold is true
Only in fairy tales can one love another like I love you
-- Dionne Remmelzwaal

A poem
By Margo de Koning

Thirteen years I had spent
longing for a home I had left behind.
Dreams of a town with enless
roads and glorious mansions and
flowers that smelled like Spring.
Once I returned I hoped
to find back a piece of me,
hidden in the corners and
buried under piles of dust.
Maybe it was still there, a memory
of a lifetime waiting to be
discovered again

The Spiders from Mars
By Vita Jansen

Let me tell you a secret. Something almost nobody knows. David Bowie wasn’t lying when he said that spiders were from Mars.

Think about it. It makes sense.

No other creature on Earch has eight legs, except for the Octopus (which technically has eight tentacles and no legs, by the way). Of course, Octopi come from Neptune, but that is a story for another time.

Back to the spiders. Spiders also have many eyes, while most creatures on Earth have only two. We can debate whether this is because there are not a lot of interesting things to see down here, whilst Mars is an aesthetically pleasing Wonderland, but we cannot be sure. The FBI and NASA tend to have different opinions on this matter. Personally, I think spiders have so many eyes to avoid the costly expense of glasses.

Lastly, spiders eat flies. Cats do this too, but then again, cats have always been bananas, gobbling up mice, cheese and whipped cream like it’s nothing. Who on earth would want to eat flies? Exactly. Ziggy Stardust has come to blow your minds.

Once we loved a butterfly
Don’t wonder how, don’t ask us why
But we believed what we’d been told
All things that glitter can’t be gold
Those jealous conspired to say
Just let that creature fly away
How can it be they have it all
Their pride is headed for a fall
For we’re still young and so naïve
We felt the pain, felt the grief
There’s still a lot to be unfold
All things that glitter can’t be gold
No every day a new joy brings
Our butterfly grow golden wings
It seems we find as we grow old
Some things glitter may be gold
So let us mind what’s there to see
Before our hearts become too cold
In spite of all that we’ve been told
Some things that glitter may be gold
It seems we find as we grow old
Our thing that glitters may be gold
-- Mike van Weert

Apart from participating in the writing workshop, Jaime also wrote a short story especially for this issue:

Room of White
by Jaime van der Meijs

“As my condition worsened, I spent every day trying to outrun death. In this room of white, kept alive by wires, needles and nurses. Looking out of the window is one of the few delights that I still have. A chance to look at the happy, outside, world; where everyone is actually alive.

Every day I see people disappear from the hospital, some whose lives had been prolonged, and others who had stopped resisting the inevitable. I can feel that my fight is reaching its end too, but all I can ask myself is: “Was the fight worth it?” All of my life I have lived to the fullest, only for it to end like this. Nobody should have to ‘survive’ the way I am doing now. So please, son, for your own sake, never stop living your life the way you want to, because death catches up to all.”

“Those were his last words, may he rest in peace now.” As I sat down, the daze returned and cut me off from the rest of the world.