Wakefield Heaven Purgatory or Hell From Isolation via

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, THROUGH ME THE WAY TO EVERLASTING PAIN, THROUGH ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST. JUSTICE MOVED MY MAKER ON HIGH. DIVINE POWER MADE ME, WISDOM SUPREME, AND PRIMAL LOVE. BEFORE ME NOTHING WAS BUT THINGS ETERNAL, AND ETERNAL I ENDURE. ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE. These words, dark in hue, I saw inscribed over an archway. And then I said: 'Master, for me their meaning is hard. ' And he, as one who understood: 'Here you must banish all distrust, here must all cowardice be slain. 'We have come to where I said you would see the miserable sinners who have lost the good of the intellect. ' And after he had put his hand on mine with a reassuring look that gave me comfort, he led me toward things unknown to man. Now sighs, loud wailing, lamentation resounded through the starless air, so that I too began to weep. Unfamiliar tongues, horrendous accents, words of suffering, cries of rage, voices loud and faint, the sound of slapping hands -all these made a tumult, always whirling in that black and timeless air, as sand is swirled in a whirlwind. (Inferno III, 1 -30)

Hell: The Streets of Me I believe in Hell more than I believe in Heaven. I see the names of the streets of Hell on the inside of my eyelids, as I fall asleep. I dream of them as I dream of the endless loss of love and of looking on that loss with no surprise. I catch the 110 into town, through those same named streets, past the grey crumpled shoebox of The Hepworth, and I wonder how art can live there. Outside the Ridings I hear shouts of Big Issue sellers mingled with slow grumbles from the traffic. Though I walk in the shadow of the spire of the Cathedral, yet I will fear no evil, yea, for it has all been done already. And I look for no solace while I smell the piss in the subway and remember the smell of myself. There is no transport but a circle; the Free City Bus running round forever, and the station with its machines clickety tickety, where the only change will be small change. Though I step outside my semi-detached, I am never detached from the Streets of Me. Michael Yates

WFI 3 BD Minuscule vintage-woven nest, cheek by jowl with stars and leaf canopy. Fell. Suspended in no-man’s land, in twilight zone. Resolved return home. Crumble. Find safe alternative, for sunnier times sheltered by Sycamores. Care. She didn’t like it. Too big and busy, inside the Orchard. Confused. Fall and fracture. Hospitalised, anaesthetised, immobilised; dramatic decline, decisions discussed. Empathic care at Pinderfields. She passed away: 8 May 2014 Coroner, Registrar, Undertaker, Flowers, Funeral: tick. Is the service safe? requires improvement. Is the service responsive? requires improvement. Is the service well-led? requires improvement. Breaches regulations 13, 17 Health & Social Care Act 2008. So she’s dead as earth. She’s gone for ever. My grief lies by ashes on undertaker’s pending shelf. 721 days on – closure not in sight. Orchard Care won’t have an Auntie Blossom. We did have. Orchard Care, a bloomy Paradise? Who cares? Lizzy Wand

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 water’s thicker than blood if dreams should not be chased if there’s an end to space if grief does not dilute if lies are better than truth if no roads lead to Rome if nothing’s sweet at home if horror doesn’t frighten if suffering doesn’t enlighten if prayers are never heard if blondes are not preferred if friends are really foes if doors are always closed if sense cannot prevail if trying always fails if red hands never caught if life is not too short if clouds don’t have a lining if twice struck by lightning if no sights for sore eyes if cats don’t have nine lives if two wrongs make a right if heaven’s too bright? Angie de Courcy Bower

Purgatory: Education At my other side were the shades in prayer closer. who, through those dreadful seams, Among the rest I saw a shade that looked expectant, were wringing tears that bathed their cheeks. and if any should ask 'how? ', it was I turned to them and I began: raising 'O people assured of seeing light on high— its chin the way a blind man does. sole object stirring your desire— 'Spirit, ' I said, 'who abase yourself to 'so grace may soon dissolve the scum climb, that fouls your conscience, and the stream if you were the one who answered of memory flow through it pure, me, 'tell me, for I shall hold it courteous and dear, make yourself known by your city or if any soul among you is Italian. your name. ' Perhaps for me to know might profit such a one. ’ 'I was of Siena, ' replied the shade, 'O my brother, all of us are citizens 'and with these others here I mend my sinful life, of the one true city. What you mean to say is, weeping to Him that He may lend "who, while still a pilgrim, lived in Italy. "' Himself to us. ’ This it seemed to me I heard in answer (Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio XIII, 82 -111) farther along from where I stood,

Purgatorio We kicked off at mid-day, me and my guide – I woke, stiff as a bread-stick, on the floor – With two Red-Bulls, leftover Southern-Fried And after that two Fosters. Then two more While taking turns to play Assassin's Creed On – was it the X-Box or the PS 4? Well, that was when we started on the weed – My guide does, on the side, a little dealing – His dividend smelt very good indeed And I suspect we shared the same appealing Getting-It-On-While-Listening-to-Marvin-Gaye- Singing-"Let's Get It On" - type of feeling, Descending in this fug for half a day Until we switched up to Oranjeboom. After that we lost the easy way And things got daft; I fell around the room, Knocked over the TV, punched the wall, Pretended to have anal with the broom The walls, the ceiling and the roof were flames Consuming us both. We just had strength to crawl Out to the nearest Offie. To our shames We bought some Spice and smoked it round the back. Whooosh! I enjoyed a hundred thousand Names, Was temple, crowd and Icon, was The Mack Returned – resplendent – for a few short hours Then something in my body screamed Attack! And down I tumbled, like the Twin Towers. Though hands came to assist me, I was sick Half in a bin, half in a bed of flowers, My throat an abattoir, my brain a brick Thrown in a washing machine – I didn't know High from low, but I needed a pick-me-up quick.

We found a club called Paradiso From which House music poured, dry ice and smoke. The bouncer never looked, said "In you go". It didn't take us long to find a bloke Dressed up like undercover C. I. D Who sold my guide and I two bags of coke And minutes later, noses straightened, we Emerged into a club where darkness glittered And the floor shook with a carnal ecstasy. Everything fitted. Everything was permitted. Double Jack and Red-Bull in my hand Told me that all was well – but then this shit-head Grabbed my neck and, barking some command, Dragged me toward the doors. I should've said "Excuse me Sir, you fail to understand…" But my glass was already swinging for his head. It didn't land, though Newton's Final Law Meant something final came at me instead, Connecting very neatly with my jaw As bodies clambered into the affray And that was me. Out. Stars were all I saw. Laid on a plastic mattress the next day I tried to clear my head, to no avail. The Sergeant said "Step up, Cassius Clay" – Reply to caution – None – and gave me bail To stand before the magistrates next week. My guide has vanished, possibly to jail, My prospects looking either bad or bleak. Waiting is Hell. Unalterable Law, Only your power can change it now. Please. Speak. Paul Crossley

Stop Marooned at night. Imploring distant light. Scanning places, strangers’ faces, snared in icy line. Treading time. And in our strife one unfurls the details of his life as if to keep us warm. We are forlorn; in box of sighs, dehumanised. To stay, or relocate? I vacillate… But moving off might jinx my stake, am forced to wait… A wicked modus operandi to advertise a patent lie. Pinned and drained; in limbo, with a tortured brain. All trust is crushed and hope superfluous. This agony I must transcend, allow my febrile hate to bend: suspend such disregard so injury cannot be carved. Become serene; become as glass just cleaned. Suddenly an arm is thrust and heart revives beneath its crust. Finally a sign for us: all’s forgiven; here’s the bus! Angie de Courcy Bower

Purgatory: The Full-time Course HND (top-up) in Caring, industry-led. I sit or stand in the classroom, sometimes one side, sometimes the other, sometimes the student, sometimes the teacher, always the ignorant, always alone in the Waterton Building. Higher Diploma, Guilt Management. And I stop and listen to my voice. And I think: But I don’t believe that. I have uttered numberless lies without hearing, without listening, at the Castleford Campus. Accreditation Given for Prior Learning. Now it seems to me I did know: my words were arrows shot across sunlight, falling blind, falling short, falling wide, without point in Margaret Street. Level 4 certificate, latest software. With the help of self-assessment, the mercy of a Personal Tutor, I still dream I will graduate, be a living soul again, between Thornes Park and Lightwaves. Michael Yates

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 to kiss Christ’s feet, as He hangs nailed to the wooden cross. Sunlight is flooding the place. In a line they come: they are bringing their sorrows, bringing the sadness some know like a landscape, bringing the maps of their pain. Here is a widowed father, here the lonely, the just-out-of prison, here the grievously sick and the anxious, here the lovers, parents and infants, here are the unemployed young, their hopes lessened by scarce prospects. Here are His people, their crosses concealed under everyday faces. Here is belief: a community praying each for the other, pilgrims, in a world that is suffering. Spare, Lord, your people. But no one is spared as we stoop for this blessing, this unspoken sharing. Love begins us, lights us. We are learning, stumbling, trusting, that the One crucified, knows our pain. Josie Walsh

Paradise: Harmony Along with the other shades, she smiled, then answered me with so much gladness she seemed alight with love's first fire: 'Brother, the power of love subdues our will so that we long for only what we have and thirst for nothing else. 'If we desired to be more exalted, our desires would be discordant with His will, which assigns us to this place. 'That, as you will see, would not befit these circles if to be ruled by love is here required and if you consider well the nature of that love. 'No, it is the very essence of this blessèd state that we remain within the will of God, so that our wills combine in unity. 'Therefore our rank, from height to height, throughout this kingdom pleases all the kingdom, as it delights the King who wills us to His will. nature 'And in His will is our peace. It is to that sea all things move, both what His will creates and that which makes. ' Then it was clear to me that everywhere in heaven is Paradise, even if the grace of the highest Good does not rain down in equal measure. (Dante Alighieri, Paradiso III, 67 -90)

Full Circle Urged by a deep, insistent need I searched for where my soul could feed and found a certain town which stirred some recognition years had blurred. Though instinct had no proof I sensed its wiser truth… Then native lore unpicked the plan, unwrapping gift of who I am: that mandate had been hurled in time, sgraffitoed down blood line, to lay its ancient claim, its miracle, its game, to steer my dreaming life to where my seed had been derived! And imprint was revealed: here was the code by which to heal; this impetus, this residue, had been my ache, my wordless cue. And I was matched to primal coil as plough which sings in soil: as thirsty slaked by source, as woman kissed by choice, as climber safely pinned, as crop all gathered in, as ship to berth, as moon to earth, as poetry, as prose, as predisposed. Full circle; closed. Angie de Courcy Bower

Paradise: In Cathedral Square Paradise is other people. They smile and tell me they’re happy. I see the disfigurement of one, feel the shame of another, hear the high-pitched laughter of a third and suspect the octaves of deceit. Happy clappy humanoids. I’d grown to hate their sound, counting it mechanical at best, or pretty propaganda, sculpting delusion from despair. But today I saw the Cathedral all around me to become a reality. Ay, there’s the rub, as we poets say. Wanting heaven. My kind of Heaven. Is that where I always go wrong? And will the words – my words in this vacuous verse or the words of all those others – convince me otherwise? Well, well. A new day. Trinity Walk and The Ridings. 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?

The City at a Distance On a cold and frosty morning When you are neither up nor down You may see this city for what it is An orphan child among the worthy It seldom appears on weather maps Never on football league tables No one living in Lanzarote Plans a trip from glossy brochures At the crossroads of two motorways It seems by-passed by both Its ancient castle, its modern hospital Masquerade by other names Somewhere in the eighties In a place where politicians play They stole its heart away Drew lines across its postcodes Deposed its county seat Disposed of what it could not afford Deprived of what it could not hold Depart King Cotton. Depart King Coal Four horsemen came-a-riding Rough shod, merciless, over the hill Closure, Demolition, Dispersal, Landfill Decline could not be declined

The regeneration Put their faith in future glories While those who remember what is lost Only sigh at their small aspiration A town planners sketchbook Scribbled on, rubbed out, redrawn Following the money-go-round Ambiguous redevelopment Gravel pits to beauty spots Green belt land to new car lots Redefines itself as near to this or part of that Defers to bigger, believed better On that cold and frosty morning You may see through history's mist Shrouding this nursery-rhyme town A wealth that pays no heed to money A running seam of richness Footsteps on pathways, voices on the air Sculpture living in hands of people New music growing and dancing A place for painters, poets, artists all And rarely, in an occasional hush The tallest spire, a dying prince 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 Mc. Grath Lauren Salisbury Richard Wainwright