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Poetry Landscapes |
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Wednesday 4 August, 2010, Milky madness, Fluttering Hands, RA Summer Exhibition, Grant Business Monday 14 June. Poet from New York, Happenstance Birthday Bash, Donegal Saturday 29 May 2010, Suffolk Review, The pleasures of London Sunday 9 May. Poetry-by-the-Sea, Hard-won acceptances, Volcanic Ash Saturday 17 April 2010, Dignity in dying, Overy morning, Stanzas and poems, travelling Fair people, Volcanic clouds Tuesday 23 March 2010. B.O. Staithe Sunday, 7 March 2010, In the Garden, Book Selling & WI, Stanza Reading in Walton Library, Finding a poem in Barcelona Sunday, 21 Febuary 2010, More on Penelope Fitzgerald’s Letters, Country Living, Talks, readings and parties, Manningtree Stanza at Walton Saturday 6 Febuary 2010, Manningtree, Stereotyping, Penelope Fitzgerald’s letters (So I Have Thought of You, 2008) Saturday 23 January 2010, Travelling Fair People Saturday 2 January 2010, Newyearpoem BOS
A blog for loyal readers who’ve been waiting patiently their next instalment
The headlines are all about milk from the offspring of a cloned cow. There are terrible floods with the monsoon in Pakistan, troops and civilians being killed in Afghanistan, meanwhile one overfed nation fusses about its milk, not even from a cloned cow but its offspring. Milk that won’t hurt a hair of anyone’s head. Best not to listen to the news. I’m reading Stephen Wilson’s Fluttering Hands (Greenwich Exchange 2008). He is a psychiatrist who lives in Oxford, holidays in Wales and writes very entertainingly, humorously; a Latinate word-wizard whose images come crowding fast and furious; sometimes an overload, tho I’m happy to study my ornithology for a Pica pica (magpie), and delighted to know an amplexus is a frog’s embrace during external fetilization. Plenty of frogs in the RA Summer Exhibition Weston Room where Janice Tchalenko showed me her little froggy print yesterday, taken from a photo of one flattened on the road. Some lovely little hopping beasties and a more obviously dead but interesting hedgehog. Tomorrow I’ll be bound for Norfolk via Hooper Lane yard – a nucleus of some 60 Travelling fair people in Norwich– mostly now retired. I’m still at it: with a long article coming out on August 15 in Suffolk Review, and the book nearing completion. Suffolk Local History Council should offer me a loan, a grant if I’m lucky. I’ve one publisher ready, as long as I get a grant and another keen but doesn’t want a grant (more trouble than they’re worth). Dust and scratches films are rearing to make a supportive film but that means a much bigger grant and the Esmee Fairbairn Foundation need an organization to administer anything they offer. Three irons in the fire: University of East Anglia's local history dept, Essex Sociology Dept and the Museum of East Anglia at Stowmarket. Only Essex came back right away; pleasantly informal, positive and interested. I’m taking from the oven a scrummy- looking pecan pie.
Monday 14 June
Last night in Edinburgh’s Guthrie Street I discovered a poet whose words felt like little eclipses of the moon. I didn’t make a purchase at the time. Ran off into the City’s darkening lamp lit crescents and got lost over and over as I always do. Won’t rest until I’ve ordered May Day (m’aider) by Phillis Levin recently out with Penguin plus anything else by her I can lay hands on. Five or six poets read including a fêted Scottish poet with Carcanet who has just published a book of art-based poems. His words were like spangles poured out like fur and yet, and yet after a while, they failed to excite the way Levin’s did. Oddly, it’s her gaps that carry the urgency!
Happenstance Birthday Party my excuse, I travelled to Edinburgh and was stunned; the city in which everyone would wish to live if it weren’t for the weather. Small wonder that foreign tourists swarm up and down Princes Street to bagpiping opportunists. Nell who is sometimes Helena (Nelson) sometimes Helen something else and a woman of many parts, said ‘Forget the £5000 prizes. Forget the inflated egos. I like to think there’s a moment when all the different modest self-effacing poets are working together.’ This, she said was part of the idea of Happenstance, modestly omitting to add how highly her press is esteemed. She likes, she said, ‘quirky’ poems, so maybe that’s something else brought us along. So do I. Jon Stone’s spell-like incantations in Scarecrow and Robin Vaughan-Williams spooky sequence The Manager filled some of the gaps between Nell’s breezy and engaging organization, typically, planned, to the minute. The evening included her mother (‘who naturally started everything’), a sister who took photographs and managed the till, a daughter who made the cake and a son-in-law who sang to us. EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL RIGHT READ Martin Creed’s installation on the front of the heavyweight early 19th –century building that has housed the Modern Art Gallery since 1999. Happenstance poets kept turning up.
A week inspired by John McGahern who made a whole world circle round a quiet country lake (That They May Face the Rising Sun). Five goldfinches fed each other on a feeder stuck in the edge of a lawn as traffic wizzed by on the coast road between Killybegs and Kilcar and lambs cried from paddocks descending to the sea. The branches of a larch tree swung across the bedroom view and we clambered doggedly up and down Sleive League. Newspaper scenes of protest outside the Dublin Embassy in support of the peace activists bringing relief supplies to Palestinians reminded us that the Jews and Arabs are at it again, hammer and tongs, as they have been throughout our life time. The cottage contained a book of Paul Durcan’s poem. He’s kind-of ‘in-house’ and not on the whole, my sort of poet, but I have much to learn from his inclusive sweeps. Today’s inhabitants of Donegal need to watch where they’re going. Pattern-book houses in ice-cream colours with pattern-book front doors are going up fast on half-acre plots spread out among gorse and moor. Their owners pour down a tarmac yard about the base and erect fancy painted balustrades round the entire frontage. It's weepable; they're spoiling the most precious thing they have.
The world of local history societies has suddenly slipped into my consciousness because I’m offering a piece to the Suffolk Review. Five hundred members of Suffolk local History Council receive copies of their smart-looking journal. My initiation is a back issue is with an unputdownable piece about a Lowestoft fisherman who made a hero when his boat became a Q-ship in the first World War. Another piece is largely based on source-material, a third, an investigation into the domicile of an eighteenth century actress. The hunt is the story, even biographers can get things wrong. I guess local history societies tend to get them right. So many small facts to check up on for my contribution on Suffolk’s showmen. Telephoning contacts, emailing recent ally, Graham Downie, who takes the photographs for World’s Fair, is a mine of helpfulness and guess what, secretary of his Midlands local history society. I even had a librarian from Southwold Library visiting the Swan Hotel on her day off on my behalf. Charlotte kindly checked the dimensions of some watercolours painted by a visiting stockbroker and fairground enthusiast in the 30s. Only once before had she been inside what is rather a posh venue for visitors, and she seemed to enjoy her tape-measuring venture. Eight of the minutely depicted scrolls measure between 2.2 and 2.4 metres. I wouldn’t have known about them if the showmen hadn’t told us on our first visit, two years ago, to a fair that goes back to 1227 on South Green.
We’ll be sloshing round Donegal when this year’s Southwold fair opens on with Henry Stocks meeting the mayors in their finery on Bank Holiday Monday. And while it’s taking place there’ll be crowds in the Tate Modern where they’ve pinched yet another piece of showman’s equipment. A bouncy castle in the Turbine Hall! The Thames bank between Waterloo and Southwark Bridge looked stunning when I zoomed from the Poetry Library in the Festival Hall to the Tate. What goodies, and free to boot. Mark Haddon’s play at the Donmar was about a manic depressive. I’d reckoned anything by Haddon would be worthwhile, but it wasn’t free and had virtually no dialogue. Well acted but one speech after another gets tiring. See a flattering review for Salaams in the Frogmore Papers, on the Poem Page. Friday night and time for The Verb.
Sunday 9 May
A poetry festival is much more than its events; you could almost say that like a poem, the gaps are as important. Never one who turns up trumps at workshops as far as writing goes, I’ve given them a miss for years. So with little to lose, I embarked on Jo Shapcott’s more or less to see if things had improved. Eight middle-aged women, one relatively young man and a twenty-something girl with a lovely face sat four or five a side at a long formica topped table in very large and rapidly-becoming-overheated room. Our subject the vibes of concrete things. What Tess Gallagher’s vest (waistcoat) encapsulated to the ‘I’ of her well known, Black Silk. How Simic’s ‘thing’ reverberates through his unsettling Description of a Lost Thing. How the process of thinking is exciting in a poem, this last perplexingly and excitingly revealed in Robert Hass’ Meditation at Lagunitas, a thought-provoking beaut. that takes several readings to get to grips with, weaving philosophy with narrative in a lament for the magic of words by newer, coarser associations. Thanks to Rodney Pybus who wasn’t at Wells, I’ve realised its association with Elizabeth Bishop’s Fish. He says the poem is 30+ years old but it seems utterly contemporary, and my description diminishes a poem that pulls together such rich bold pickings in its 30 odd lines. Our somewhat serious deliberations took place to an accompaniment of hilarity from a voice-training workshop in the adjoining room. At a reception for the festival’s ‘Friends’, I spoke with erudite Jon Stallworthy who complained that a lot of modern poetry is immediately accessible and won’t last more than six months. Look at Eliot’s Waste Land, how difficult it seemed at first. How it lives on. It was Four Quartets that I discovered at 17 in a tiny front room in Cambridge’s Lensfield Road. Barely space to turn around in. Since then, Mama’s old copy of The Waste Land has seldom been far away. It soon became apparent that Jon was at school with Chris Ionides, so I introduced him to Polly and lost my poet.
Faith in a trio of poems has been rewarded with the acceptance of three I’ve sent out with only very minor changes, 6, 11 and 19 times – the most rejections I’ve ever had with Scallop which is about Maggi Hambling’s bronze sculpture at Aldeburgh. Michael Mackmin had said he liked the poem, that gave me comfort, and somehow I had sufficient faith in it to keep sending it out. Readers will have to wait until 2012 to read it in Stand Poetry Magazine.
Plane to Quebec leaves Heathrow 1.00 pm, my diary informed, but thousands of people stuck in airports worried me the sudden option of six unexpected days at home. M got to his conference, the first day they opened. ‘Wasn’t he cross you didn’t go?’ my hairdresser asked. You miss: you gain, I thought, emerging from the hairdresser less of a shaggy beast. Now I could give the Manningtree garden its annual dose of nematodes to gobble the vine weevil larva, get to grips with planting the round bed at Overy and join Anne Stewart’s North Kent Stanza in Bromley. Biking back after midnight because of a train cancellation, I was thankful to helpful Anne and one of her group: the long Barcelona poem has jumped into a revised version.
A wet and windy early May bank Holiday found us in Wye’s Devil’s Kneading Trough, woods full of bluebells and anemonies. Long meals with the girls round the kitchen table, a display of riding and jumping the hitherto reluctant Evita by a determined Molly, and interchanges with goats and baby lambs at the various venues that make up Kumar’s ‘farm’. A Kent man told me the un-mothered lamb is called a ‘sock’. It’s obvious really; lost sox!
Last night, listening to Robin Blaze in Bach’s B Minor Mass, I knew I could celebrate my funeral if people could hear him sing. Cards from D in D have duly been despatched to Manningtree’s four potential candidates; 80% of the UK population want assisted suicide to be legalised. This is not strictly a follow up just that both concern death.
This morning, after early lawn scarification, down to the Staithe, eightish, everything shiny in the sun. Water smooth, blue and shiny, boat hulls shiny, wind smooth and steady. Tom and Henrietta leaving the harbour in their brown sailed boat, the tide had just begun to ebb. An almost perfect sail, I’d say for the ten or so boats out. What harmony with movements of the earth.
Nick Laird wrote about a poem block in the Guardian Review. The anxiety out of all proportion to the record or evidence that one will never flow again. The gradual diminishing of self this brings, the histrionics, the self-indulgent trauma! I’ve managed 3 poems this year, one of which is 44 lines long and unlike those I usually write. Next week I join Anne Stewart’s Stanza in Bromley (North West Kent) to visit Beryl and see what they make of it. Manningtree Stanza in its third year, is flowers well. Two members are going to subscribe to Happenstance. (see Stanza page for future dates). Reading Brendan Kenelly, I can see why he’s so popular a poet. My favourite in Neil Astley’s selection (In Person, Bloodaxe 2008) is ‘Bread’ because its so spare, that the heady lyricism is manageable, an early poem about his mother. Bread Someone else cut off my head By her fingers. This
A synopsis has gone out to tender as it were among Alan Sutton co-operative publishers at Amberley Press. AS made a significant name for himself with his own company that fell on hard times and eventually went into liquidation I think 2009. It hasn’t taken him long to re-emerge, this time he calls himself ‘Chief Executive’ so presumably it’s on more commercial lines. I salute the spirit and presumably he weeds out the submissions before they are released to a second stage. If anyone is interested in following it up they will make a direct reply to you. Now for the waiting game, with high probability of a grant; that should improve the chances for a bird to take the bait. Waiting is hardly the right word while interviews proceed and chapters
Volcanic clouds Will we, won’t we, get to Quebec in four day’s time? The old volcano continues to spume, ash clouds into European skies and the weather refuses to budge; its 50:50 I’d say.
Swapping between houses (a second-home owner’s luxury) makes us realise how little things make a big difference to the daily round. Like being able to look out of a window when you are at the kitchen sink rather than a blank or (worse) reflective wall. Like having a garden where you can perch deck chairs on grass rather than on stone or concrete. Like having a view – doesn’t need to be coastal. Trees, rooves and grass do admirably, the worst, again, is concrete. Like the presence of birds. Two tits this morning in the heavily lopped birch tree – all soft, sunny and trembling with beginning year. The day began with wood pigeons and a dream that slipped away like a swarm of silver fish. I chased and couldn’t catch their tails. The waking sequence was of filling a tray full of regimented glasses with chopped mixed fruit in deep red juice. One of the glasses fell sideways and the juice spilled out. M leaves for Brussels on the Eurostar for a meeting of scientists on food testing. I take him to King’s Lynn, buying a new map to replace the one I lost and can’t do without. Like Colchester, Lynn has long streets of small, interesting-looking shops, quite a few of them run by charities. I have been reading about Danish author, Peter Hoeg’s protagonist, Miss Smilla who could look at a map and hold the image in her head. There must be such people, with the me’s at the other end of the spectrum. Takes ages to workout routes so I can drive them with confidence. Turn me round twice and I’ll never know where I am. Derry discovered this on Sunday morning walks from Radyr. ‘Now where is the sun?’ The big musical chairs has taken place in the new border. Grizelina exchanged places with Prunus lusitanica and the two Buddleas exchanged along the back wall. The Caryopteris has gone to a hopefully, final, home. A heavy frost earlier in the month has left Richard’s Agave looking extremely sorry for itself. Wish that I’d covered it up when I thought the worst of winter had passed. Maybe it was happier in Blackheath surrounded by a tangle of plants.
Four promotional meetings and a Stiffkey launch are arranged for Return of the Tide. I’m not the only pro-wind turbine contributor. Richard Hardimen is too, he simply wants lots of them out at sea rather than dotted around the country.
A deep frosty start to the day, bird-full but otherwise silent, blue sky and sun from 7.00 am. Alas, the soil is too cold for the anticipated shuffle of plants. Instead we concentrate on Rosa moyesii whose intense scarlet blooms and long wayward branches make it too much of an individualist to have close companions. We’ve moved it from a long bed backed by a wall, to a heavy-clay spot facing west beside the entrance porch, now adrift with snowdrops and fading aconites.
l-rt, Diana, Judith, Sally, Caroline, Maggie, Cameron. It was very much the teamwork between us and Walton Library that was responsible for such a good afternoon. A full house, and tea with home-made cakes to follow but it was seeing one of our audience take out a library book of poetry that sealed our success. She said 'I don't normally take out poetry.'
To sell copies of Lavender books I decided to give talks. To give talks to Essex WIs I need an audition, duly arranged at the Congregational Hall in Little Baddow. This turns out to be a small sprawly village, east of Chelmsford. On the appropriate day I drove through winding roads over little humped bridges through enormous standing puddles to find the route from Junction 19 on the A12 had been closed, and scarely could here be a venue more difficult to find. Reaching the hall I found the previous speaker in full cry to a room bursting with more than 70 sturdy WI volunteer auditioners, but running so late that they were anxious to move ahead with their last speaker of the day. A quick look informed me that my extra electric lead wasn’t long enough and I’d no idea how to set up my equipment on the huge stage. In the event, I relied heavily on the previous speaker, the lights weren’t turned on, there wasn’t time to extricate pointer or my mouse. Pinned to the edge of the stage between computer and projector leads, holding a microphone, for the first time ever I lost my place as it were in my notes. Despite all of which, the WI made a tremendous audience, and for some reason put me on the register of recommended speakers.
I should say first I wanted words more than four sorts of soothing juice, tea or coffee with hot milk, the choice of several yoghurts, salami, anchovies, herrings, ham, cheese, capers, cucumber, slim sticks of carrot, sliced white or yeasty rolls, hot scrambled eggs with accompaniments; fresh fruit, a feast of cakes and pastries, chocolate dougnuts. Squares of pear, mango, pineapple, watermelon. There’s only so much you can manage. For what I want you need to wait, scan a plate when someone’s gone. Unpick his napkin with your eye, ponder the smear of sausage, half a cup the waitress drains. Why did he leave too soon to finish? What was on his mind? Go for the gaps, the gaps.
It was 440 pages before I came to ‘I’m sorry the Festings are leaving …I loved her book on lavender.’ A nice little boost if the editors had foot-noted the thrice mentioned ‘Sally’. A personal pleasure all the same. By the end of the collection the reader almost has a grip on the two Penelope Fitzgeralds, one humourously modest, ‘ashamed’ by what she doesn’t know or hasn’t got right, belittles her own effort while the other is super-professional, utterly serious and exacting about her own and other people’s art. [Does this bear on her choice of Charlotte Mew as a biographical subject because she too led simultaneously, different lives?] It’s a kind of tease.
In BOS, huge woolly snowflakes drench the window scene, a pleasantly muted one of white roofs, flints and brick laced with pale grass and trees. Soft, soft. After a bright muddy seawall walk yesterday, I sat at the computer wearing finger-mittens, two scarves, a huge hand-knitted jumper and a coat. Glad I protected the artemisia, tumbling in the process, a mouse from a plastic bag of stained garden fleece and a pool of very stinky urine. It could hardly have chosen a better hide-out.
Aconites sunny faces beside the front door proclaim February the time for feeling the way into the year. Group secretaries start filling in speakers for yes, 2011. Invitations come in and go out. Some crowd-pulling poet readers demand £1,000 for a reading! It’s not as if there aren’t a huge spread of excellent candidates with only slightly lower profiles, but in our celebrity culture, the winner takes all. Essex Poetry Festival still have to choose a number one. Annie Freud is a woman of wide horizons, unafraid of voicing her very individual slant. I thoroughly admired the way she handled a discussion of women’s poetry at Aldeburgh so I’m glad that Derek managed to book her for Chelmford’s Cramphorn. If Maura Dooley can fill another slot, they’d make a fine duo. Happenstance Birthday Party is scheduled for June 12 when I shall be heading for Edinburgh. ‘Successful or not, [and who is to judge] if you keep pushing beyond yourself, you will enrich your own life’. One of AL Kennedy’s writing hints in the Guardian Review. Manningtree Stanza at Walton Library On Tuesday 2 March, six of us arrive with a rich and varied programme. Communication with the staff has been highly commendable. Now there’s a well run library.
Sun and mist to the east from Manningtree’s long Maltings’ windows. Big tides in the last weeks have brought the swans right up the estuary. Maybe hundreds. The old, or is it the oily ones, waddle up the grass verge beside The Walls, tussling restlessly with dirty feathers. Amazing how they lay their neck flat across their backs, wings closed, and wriggle it sideways to rub and reach the various parts. What a wonderful length the neck of a swan. Snowdrops poking through the spent bracken between the trees on Furze Hill.
Jezz Butterworth’s witty Jerusalem full of TV references that blink you/me into the media. Everyone comments on Michael Rylance’s lead performance. On stage for most of three hours, he gives a fine performance. Makes a complex character out of a possible buffoon. No one may join me, hot beneath the collar on the fair people’s behalf at the stereotyping they receive. Druggy, workless and worthless. Difficult for them to take the gibes when they’re not only continually misrepresented but under threat. They do get fed up about it.
Not everyone gets the pleasure I do from Penelope Fitzgerald. Rodney Pybus says her novels don’t do anything for him but didn’t explain why. We were discussing them last night. (Two poets side by side at Fleece Jazz in Stoke by Nayland’s unlikely golf club venue. Glum that neither of us has written a poem for a month.) And reading PF’s letters, my admiration leaps and bounds. Some cutting of maternal wish-you-were-here’s might have been made, but often I laugh aloud at notes to her editors. The bungliness seems not quite a pose, more a cover for shyness. All the while her sharp mind ticking away hell-for-leather, imbuing life with a mixture of tenderness and merciless wit. That she was at her correspondence first thing in the morning, made her clothes, decorated the house, coped with a difficult husband, taught, gardened, researched and wrote. She didn’t half set herself a pace. I realised that her son-in-law, is Maura Dooley’s brother. A twist to have been reading MDs poems that same morning.
Saturday, 23 January 2010, Travelling Fair People
1. Because we should know the condition of life of others we share the 2. They are a minority community who lead a separate life from the mainstream. 3. They creatively extend a historic tradition. 4. They have a strong work ethic 5. And a strong sense of identity. 6. Because of strict social codes, their divorce rate, for instance, rare until the last generation, is still lower than average. David Smith, onetime showman from Syderstone 7. Family orientation means respect for the elderly and conspicuously less generation gap than the rest of society. 8. They are keen to close up problems with formal education due to the range of different schools encountered during the travelling season. 9. They adapt to relatively confined personal space. 10. While nomadic people have always had a rough time in conformist societies, UK showmen get a poor deal compared with their European counterparts regarding space and facilities. 11. Despite defensiveness over prejudice, they have an evident capacity for enjoyment. 12. Show people themselves would like to promote greater understanding of their business and way of life – see ETR House of Commons Report on Travelling Fairs (2000)
Newyearpoem BOS another year closes and opens like a white flower ‘little to the left’ they test the reality
we print the garden print the snow I hardly know what shapes the world sun glittery in our eyes if literature is speaking to the dead another year has opened
Running up to Christmas were four interviews by Joan Bakewell on radio3, among them David Starkey who called himself an Anglican humanist and an atheist. Marina Warner from a tight Catholic past, also, now an atheist. It was the openness to their own feelings that came over. (How we love to listen to views that chime with our own!) We are responsible for ourselves. We have debts. Starfish near Gun Hill
Every poet contemplating book publication should order a copy of Sphinx. (wwwhappenstancepress.com £3.50). ‘Its impossible to get a true picture of what’s been happening in poetry in this country over the last 40 years without looking at small-press productions’ says Peter Hughes- poet/painter who started his Oystercatcher Press two years ago after moving to the North Norfolk coast and won the 2009 Michael Marks award. Other interviews with presses feature Shearsman, Red Squirrel and Grey Hen.
Oystercatcher poetry is not prescriptive about form, open-minded rather than categorical, bringing in references the way the mind flits and hovers, freeing and incorporating rather than making a sustained effort in a single direction. the word ‘experimental’ has been used. ‘I’m not interested in ‘schools’ of poetry. I love energy and unexpectedness, range and diversity, sensuality and intelligence.’(Hughes) Fittingly, the abstract covers he paints for Oystercatcher chapbooks represent this freedom, this openness to pattern. They make you think of bird trajectories in the sky. I wasn’t surprised to find that Hughes has collections with Salt and Shearsman.
Shearsman 81 & 82 is another breath of – well, lack-of- establishment, mountain air set apart by its shiny, ochre, cover. Deep? Slick? Shear? Avocado & mustard, wooded; Northern Europe? Oldy-Worldy? (unlike the poems) A hint of National Geographic Magazine? Must be a photograph, the credit says ‘Vintage Mountain Scene’. Two-thirds sky. And a Shearsman poem? Is it possible to generalise? Unsuppressed lateral thinking? Ruminative, a tendency again to abstract, and a propensity to engage philosophy. Stripped of decorative imagery. Sometimes complex. Sometimes virtually thought diary. Poems that require the reader to burrow away at like a little dog at its hole. Like Salt Pubications, its references, and its contributors are far-flung; its readership largely based in the US.
In Manningtree this morning, the fountain played in the market square.
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pile up. On the way to Overy we discovered New Green in Thurston, where young Jamie Bloomfield has set out his small picturesque fair inside a bank of flowering cherry trees. And what a pretty picture it made!
world with.
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