The Petty Concerns of Luke Wright.
Why would anyone want to spend an hour with a self-declared ‘Foppish Buffoon’ in a darkened upstairs room in a pub in Islington on a rainy Thursday evening? Even if he is poet-in-residence on BBC Radio 4’s Saturday Live. Read on to find out why each of the 60 minutes added up to excellent value for the entrance fee.
My feelings about London are usually distinctly hostile. For me, on my frequent car journeys down to Sussex, it’s a blot on the landscape, the monster that spawned the nightmare of the M. 25. But last Thursday, on one of my occasional jaunts into its heart, I was reminded of how much I enjoy its variety, once I’m there.
As soon as I emerged from the bowels of the earth and climbed the steps to Hungerford Bridge, I breathed in the tang of the sea, the only thing I miss since moving to the Midlands. Then into the Festival Hall to meet my writer friend Crysse Morrison for a catch-up chat, lunch at Waggamamas, and a peaceful hour in the National Gallery relaxing in front of her current favourite, Seurat’s The Bathers. Like most people, I was familiar with the card-sized version of this picture, but I was stunned to see it taking up almost half the wall ( actually about 2 metres by 3). We sat for a long time, enjoying the calming scene and wondering about the lives of those boys.
The highlight of my day took place in the Red Lion in Islington, where our other writing friend, Roger Jinkinson joined us, and, best of all, my son. I had no idea what to expect of The Petty Concerns of Luke Wright, apart from this, taken from his website:
“Featuring some nipple-tweekingly awful teenage lyrics; sarcastic cricket commentators and the death of a very tight pair of jeans. Luke effortlessly mixes comedy and poetry as he tries to look past his own inflated ego and find out what really matters.”
He’s a whirlwind of energy, and I found his self-deprecating delivery hilarious and touching, both the preambles and the poems themselves. These were clearly differentiated by the use of a huge screen, letting us know that the monologue had morphed into the poem it was introducing, by the simple technique of displaying the poem’s title.
To get a feel of what the show was like, you’ll have to check out where it’s going to be performed next, and book your ticket. If you can’t do that, then buy the book. I was delighted to be able to do this, and extend my enjoyment of the evening by reading the poems on the train home.
As it says in the blurb on the cover of his book, “High Performance “ brings Luke Wright’s acerbic wit and high-energy performance style to the page, revealing the formal discipline underpinning much of his verse.
It was enlightening to see what the stream of words looked like on the page, and identify the internal and end-rhymes and half-rhymes. It confirms the importance of the visual aspect of poetry, and how this affects the way the poem works in the reader’s head, presenting more layers of meaning and understanding.
One of my favourites from the book is Family Funeral, with its precise choice of metaphors to pin down nostalgic memories and complex emotions:
“And so, as sure as seasons, they arrive -
relations last seen heavy as trifle
at some mid-childhood Sunday lunch …”
Take a look, and buy the book.
http://www.nastylittlepress.org/books/high-performance/
Looping the Loop with Free Harmony
BEFORE YOU READ ABOUT Looping the Loop with Free Harmony, Click here for my BOOK COVER DESIGN CHALLENGE
and give yourself the chance of winning a FREE copy of Paper Lanterns(CLOSING DATE: 31st December)
I’ve just experienced the weird (but rather nice) sensation of hearing my voice coming at me from my computer screen, and suddenly I’m back in the headquarters of Radio Wildfire, being interviewed by the presenter, Dave Reeves. I’m reading an extract from The Dangerous Sports Euthanasia Society, the part where Agnes Borrowdale, (‘75 years old, a week on Tuesday’) prevents Felix from throwing himself under a high speed train on New Street Station.
I shared the ‘live’ part of the broadcast, on Monday 7th December, with Adrian Johnson, the current Birmingham Poet Laureate, but although I had the pleasure of hearing him recite his poems, I wasn’t able to listen to myself and hear how I’d have sounded to the fans of Radio Wildfire, so it was a relief to find that I didn’t make a complete prat of myself (in spite of some hesitation and stumbling over a few words.)
I’m quite used to talking about my first novel, but this was the first time I’d been interviewed about Paper Lanterns so it took a bit longer to collect my thoughts. I have to say that I was enthralled just now when I was listening to two of the real-life love letters from China in the 1920s that inspired one of the main story threads in the novel. (I’ll post more information about these letters soon.)
Meanwhile, if you want to hear more of this broadcast, it’s now available here on the Loop.
The Loop is a non stop (24/7)transmission between the live monthly broadcasts, and it’s just been updated today, 23rd December. Once you’ve got the hang of how this works, it’s very easy to follow, especially as Dave has listed what you can expect to hear on each of the 12 tracks. If you miss anything, all you need to do is wait till it comes round again – (a bit like those baggage carousels at airports when you fail to recognise your own suitcase before it’s swallowed up by those dangling bits of rubber - but waiting on Radio Wildfire is a good deal more entertaining than watching the sluggish progress of other people’s luggage!)
So here’s the programme, and it’s part of the fun to identify which track you’ve landed on. It’s all good stuff, but make sure you listen out for tracks 6 and 9!
Tracks 1-3
Adrian Johnson Birmingham Poet Laureate reads…
All the Jam
Happy Birthday Brummie Floozy
Birmingham’s What?
Tracks 4-6
Office Party Roz Goddard (live)
Thank you letter Xmas 1969 (2008) Brendan Hawthorne with Nigel Self
Christine Coleman reads from The Dangerous Sports Euthanasia Society
Tracks 7-9
Twelve Days of Christmas, a story by Susan Hulse
A Poor Man’s Excuse Dave Reeves (live)
Christine Coleman talks about her forthcoming novel, Paper Lanterns
Tracks 10-12
Adrian Johnson talking about the National Storytelling Laureate and reading the poem Deep Mercia
Christmas Do Geoff Stevens
Let Your Little Light Shine (Trad spiritual) Free Harmony*
(* I liked this so much that I ordered the CD of Free Harmony from Chris Hoskin’s website (a bargain at £8.00)
Talking of blogs, plinths and publishing
In my last post, I mentioned my delight in coming across ‘so many informative, and/or quirky, inspiring, reflective, hilarious, challenging etc etc whole new communities out there.’
One of these is Essential Writers, where you’ll find a cornucopia of posts about the experiences of other writers – something new and interesting everyday.
I was delighted when Judy invited me to be interviewed by her, and even more delighted on Wednesday when I was able to read the interview on-line . I’m now looking forward to seeing another feature of mine appear on the site on Friday next week. (It’s about what happens between having a book accepted, and the actual publication date)
Another web link that I enjoyed seeing this week, led me to Antony Gormley’s One & Other Project in Trafalgar Square, where my poet friend, Karin, was doing her bit on the Fourth Plinth. I found it unexpectedly moving – not only what she writes about her reasons for doing this, but the calm and confident way she performs the most mundane of household tasks and imbues them beauty and dignity.
I’m tempted to copy the whole text that appears underneath the video, but I’ll leave it to you to discover the pleasure of reading Karin’s words, and the poem by Tess Gallagher , called ‘I stop Writing the Poem’, which helps to convey the meaning of the whole performance.
Karin is the second of my poet friends to take to the Plinth. The first was Crysse Morrison in July. Ignore the first second of the video (the previous performer gets scooped up by the JCB before Crysse takes her place on the plinth)
My mind is now buzzing (as it has been for the last few weeks) with all aspects of the publishing business. I’d never have imagined there were so many details to investigate. It’s exhausting, but fascinating.
And what analogy pops into my head, along with this thought? Something totally different - I’ve been whisked back across more than three decades, to another unexpectedly fascinating and exhausting period of my life. Click here to see if you can make sense of the connection I’m making between motherhood and publishing!
Snake Stall at the Night Market (Poem 5)
In my last post, (see below) I mentioned that I’d been interviewed last Wednesday by Chris Morgan (the current Birmingham Poet Laureate) for his Poetry Show on Unity FM.
The time went surprisingly fast, during which Chris asked me lots of questions about my poetry and other writing. We paused in our conversation from time to time as Chris invited me to read one of my poems.
Being interviewed on the radio is a slightly unreal situation - during a ‘normal’ conversation with another individual, sitting opposite each other acoss a wide desk, it would seem a bit odd to punctuate the conversation with a poems. I felt very relaxed, but at the same time I was also aware that there could be several other people listening in. (And on the other hand, there might be no-one at all)
In a way, it felt a little like writing this blog - creating an illusion of communication with unseen readers )
I had selected several poems that I might want to read, but realised I’d probably need to make some kind of link to the latest topic of conversation, and I didn’t know in advance what questions Chris would be asking.
This Poem of The Week is one that I read during the interview - I’d been explaining why my soon-to-be-published-novel, Paper Lanterns, was set in Hong Kong, and this poem is one that I wrote after my first visit to Hong Kong with my husband and son, when my daughter was out there during her Gap year.
Snake Stall at the Night Market,Kowloon
I knew this was a language understood
by the rapt crowd of men and the man
performing and the woman holding
the bowl and knife -
not the Cantonese, rapid as gunshot
peppering shadowy figures on the pavement
nor the manic cacophony
of plastic alarm clocks from
three stalls away, nor tannoys blaring
White Christmas and voices bawling
Kalvin Klein jeans one hundred twenty dollars
and long-past-bedtime toddlers keening.
This was beyond vocabulary
an alien body language
of animal and human locked
in ritual more primitive than speech.
I’d have been swept along by the mainstream
alert for siren voices chanting silks
and watches, perfumes and leather
at must-have prices, but
my teenage son stopped
entranced. So I had to watch
as the four-foot, green and yellow snake
was gripped at the throat, its tail
pinned under the man’s boot, its belly
squeezed upwards, again and again
in the deft hand. The crowd knew
what this meant, what the man was offering
to one who was rich or brave or
foolish enough to buy what was about
to happen. All I could decipher
was the snake’s tail escaping
and the way the creature looped itself
into a knot until the man untied it
clamped the tail again, and took the knife.
I turned away, but still could hear
the many-headed monster suck its breath,
and commentary from my son’s mouth
that I would not interpret, for fear of
falling through a crack in the paving.
I wrote this poem a few years after the experience I’ve described. The incident had made a profound impression on me, but if I hadn’t made some detailed notes at the time, I would probably not have recalled it all.
I strongly recommend the use of a note book for jotting down a few words about things that you notice - however, I don’t do nearly enough of this myself!
putting on my other hat at Erdington library
At my money-earning job with Adult Education, I’m known by my married name, while in my alter ego as a poet and novelist, I use the name I was born with, Christine Coleman. I get a particular enjoyment from fusing the two roles, so this afternoon was especially enjoyable.
As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, I see a strong link between my teaching and my writing (particularly teaching adult literacy - see the post ‘A Beginner reader is not a Beginner Thinker’) This afternoon I’d been invited by the tutor, Jan Watts, to help launch the little book that she’d helped the creative writing group to produce : ‘A little Book of Smells.’ This very evocative sense was stimulated on every page and it was lovely to hear the proud authors reading some of their own pieces. The high standard of their delivery was a tribute Jan’s drama background.
The group meets once a month at Erdington library, and in my then role as manager of the nearby Osborne A.E. Centre, I had set up this class several years ago. It was a joy to be back there, sharing the ‘Visiting Professional Writer’ role with Chris Morgan, Birmingham’s current Poet Laureate.
The group were keenly interested in what Chris Morgan and I had to say about our own writing practices. This is one of the reasons why I started this blog: Writing Matters - so many people enjoy writing and are fascinated by the varied experiences of others, particularly those who’ve progressed a little further along the journey.
While answering questions from the group, I was suddenly struck by a thought which I’d never articultated before in quite this way: one of the things I love about writing is that I’m always learning. If I ever I lose that joy in learning, I’ll stop writing!
When I was asked which I preferred, writing fiction or poetry, I couldn’t give a definte answer, though I’ll explore that question in more detail later.
Right now, I know I want to continue writing about the events leading to the publication of The Dangerous Sports Euthanasia Society. In my last post, I’d just finished a wonderful writing course on the Greek island of Kithera that was in May 2002 and I’ve not mentioned my poetry career, since the first performance of my poetry group, Late Shift, at Ledbury in 1998? or was it 99?
I’ve got lots more to say about the way my poetry developed from the late 90’s to the present day, but that will have to wait for a few days.
How I don’t get stage fright
(This post will make more sense if you read the ones below, first)
After a cold, wet weekend and a chilly Monday and Tuesday, I’ll be off back to work again in a few minutes as this is the evening for teaching my evening literacy class - something I always enjoy once I get there.
Meanhwile, here’s the next part of my story about my first public performance with the poetry group, Late Shift. See: ‘Will I make it to Ledbury Literary Festival?’
Everyone knows that stage fright is unavoidable – and there I was, on the M5 on my way to Ledbury Literary Festival and still there was no sign of stomach butterflies or clammy palms. OK, then, enjoy it while it lasts, I thought. It’ll happen with a vengeance when I get nearer to Ledbury. I entered the town and found the hotel we’d all booked into for the night. And still I felt perfectly calm.
I booked in, and went out again to meet up with the others, as arranged, at the festival office. Seeing them was a pleasure, unalloyed by any hint of lurking panic. Maybe it was saving itself till I reached the venue?
Well before the programmed start-time, we trooped in to the hall, where at least 100 chairs were waiting for the audience. Our audience! Still not a flutter to disturb my composure. Every time I’d begun to think about the possibility of stage fright, I could feel a physical block in that part of my brain. Try as I might, any thoughts of that nature refused to materialise. It was then that realisation dawned:
I’d been ‘zapped’ by our family friend, a highly skilled psychologist, who mainly worked with children. I’d been talking to him a couple of days before my big event, and worrying about the possibility of stage fright, so, in his own inimitable way, he’d fixed it.
Hypnotism doesn’t have to be obvious to be effective. Quite the reverse, I’d imagine. Whatever the truth of it, I managed to give a good-enough performance, without a twinge of stage fright. The audience seemed to be enjoying my contributions just as they enjoyed the others – and their silences were as telling as their applause.
Love Bites, by Late Shift was a huge success, and because I was never troubled by stage fright, or even the fear of it, from that day on, I’ve been able to focus on perfecting my delivery - thanks to our friend. What a gift that was!
Next stop – the Edinburgh Festival (not quite next, exactly, but maybe the most exciting !)
Gaining new skills when you get older – especially when you’re on the down-hill side of fifty - is unimaginably rewarding.
Will I make it to Ledbury Literary Festival?
A rather depressing day at work - a meeting about the new funding for September. You’ll understand why I’m feeling like this if you look back at one of my earlier posts, A Beginner Reader is not a Beginner Thinker .
I enjoyed working as an Adult Literacy tutor, and later a manager, because the service was dedicated to helping people who’d not been successful at school, and giving them support and time to work at their own pace. Now, the funding is depending more and more on quick results and accreditation, with less opportunity to take account of the realities of people’s lives, such as shift work, ill-health, and familiy responsibilities.
The word ‘family’ brings me back what I was mentioning in the previous post about Late Shift (to see how this came about, take a look at the post, Cannon Poets and What This Led to )
As any parent will know, once you’ve fixed a date for one of the most important events in your adult life, particularly one that closely involves others for whom your presence is vital, Sod (of Sod’s Law) will manage to arrange a conflicting event on the same date at the same time somewhere else in the country for one of your children – an event that in their eyes will rank as the most important of their life, ever. One of those key rites of passage, than which nothing, absolutely nothing, could be more important – for example, your daughter’s graduation ceremony.
Naturately, that was the date chosen for Late Shift’s first performance – an occasion that was to take place in one of the main venues for artistic events in the Literary Festival at Ledbury. The date of my daughter’s graduation ceremony at Nottingham University, with an invitation for two close relatives. This, in her case, meant her father, and her mother.
This was the three-year old who’d stopped my heart at the thought of our future separation. How could I not be there for her? (see the post: A Short Digression onThe Joys of Motherhood)
Enter Clarissa Dickson Wright, (a bit like a fairy godmother!) My daughter would have four visitors to her university that day: both parents would be at the lunch beforehand, together with her brother and her dearly-beloved Godmother. We could all be photographed with the graduate in her cap and gown (proof of her mother’s presence, in spite of everything) , and then I’d drive our son back home, before setting off for Ledbury. Meanwhile, Clarissa would take my place among the assembled parents, and offer her cheers and applause instead of mine.
As I drove away, I wondered why I wasn’t feeling nervous. Well, it must be because I wasn’t strictly on the way to Ledbury yet – I was on my way home, to collect my script and drop off my son. Stage fright was obligatory, wasn’t it? It was bound to hit me, sooner or later.
Late shift’s formula for success
Am exhausted! Tuesday evening is when I teach my adult literacy course. It’s been very muggy this evening - and the whole building was hot and airless, in spite of having the windows opened. I was there because I had to be - it’s part of my job, but the students have dragged themselves out again after a hard day’s work, when they must have been tempted to relax with a cold drink.
As I often do at the end of a session, I wondered if I’d made it worth their while. We’d all been a bit more subdued than usual and preparing for exams places some limits on the kinds of activities I can plan for, but they all said they’d found it useful.
Talking about planning takes me back to what I was talking about in my last post,
How the Poetry Group, Late Shift, was Created.
I’ll always be grateful to Don for giving me this opportunity, and to Susan and Rob for their encouragement. The planning meetings and rehearsals were great fun. We developed a very effective format for designing our performances. To start with, we’d agree a topic - preferably one on which we already had some suitable poems. The name of our first show was ‘Love Bites’, which gave us more or less a free hand.
The next task was to select some of our own love-related poems, humorous or serious, and often both. We then met to select or discard some of these offerings, divvying up the numbers for each of us, and identify the gaps, which we would have to fill with new-coined poems.
It was usually Rob who volunteered to sort the final choice of poems into a running order that would make a kind of conversation, with the poems talking to or bouncing off each other. We’d arrange another meeting, varying the host house, up and down from Berkshire to the Midlands, and, after agreeing to (or amending) Rob’s arrangements, we’d insert some lively ‘impromptu’ linking comments to each other, weaving a seamless show.
This formula worked so well the first time round, that we used it for all our subsequent shows. Audiences enjoyed the interplay between us, and the constant switching from one voice to another. We seemed to have hit the bulls eye of the middle ground, where ‘serious’ poets and followers thereof would feel they were being fed enough of the ‘real’ stuff for nourishment, while those for whom the word ‘poetry’ would normally act as an instant reminder that they had to be somewhere else very, very far away that very minute, came out smiling and saying, actually, that wasn’t like poetry at all - I really enjoyed it!!’
But I’m running ahead of myself – My first-ever performance since the age of six, was looming. My biggest fear was that I’d let the others down
How the Poetry group, Late Shift, was created
Another glorious weekend - a real treat to bask in the sunshine in my garden and make time to read poetry magazines (Mslexia and the newly created Artemispoetry from 2nd Light Publications). I’ve even managed to produce a few lines that might eventually turn into a completed poem, though I doubt I’ll have much time for the next few days when my head will be full of work stuff.
Anyway, getting back to the subject of my poetry ‘career’ -as I’ve said in my post, Cannon Poets, and what this led to , I was invited by Don Barnard from the Cannon Poets writing group to be the fourth member of what soon was named Late Shift. The four of us first met together in a pub in Oxford. The other three were all experienced writers and performers of their work. I’d never heard of a Poetry Slam before, but it soon became clear that you have to have nerves of steel to take part in one of these events – a knock-out competition, in which the poets who’d gained the loudest and longest applause for their opening offerings would move on to the next round, while the others would retire to their seats in disappointment.
Both Rob Evans and Don were experienced Slammers, and accustomed to winning. Susan Utting had already been published, taught creative writing at Reading University and often gave readings of her own. And I was being invited to be a part of this group!
The last time I’d been on a stage I was six years old, playing the Angel Gabriel in the school nativity in a church hall packed with proud parents. Gabriel was the main part in that version of the story. A singing part! But that was before self-consciousness took over control of my voice and my gestures. Throughout my years at the convent boarding school I was never chosen for a speaking part in any performance. To be fair, I never put myself forward for auditions, though somewhere deep down, I wanted to be thrust onto the stage, and miraculously discover (or even re-discover) a talent for acting.
Unsurprisingly, Clarissa did have this talent in full measure. She made a superb Earnest in Oscar Wilde’s Importance of being Earnest, complete with dapper moustache.
Cannon Poets, and what this led to
(This post might make more sense if you read the ones below, first)
It’s ages now since I’ve managed to get to one of the monthly workshops at Cannon Poets – this Sunday is one when I’d be free to go, but it doesn’t happen to be the first one in the month. I’ll be visiting my mother in Sussex on the weekend of the June meeting – and so another month will slip by. I’m only an associate member now, but I still feel attached to the group, and very grateful for all the opportunities that it gave me.(Yes, I will make it to a meeting at least once this year!)
Not the least of the benefits of this group, is their practice of reading aloud round the huge, angular table in a room at the top of the Midlands Arts Centre in Cannon Hill Park. (Now temporarily meeting at a different venue, during the renovation the MAC) There were often more than twenty of us there, and at first I found the readings very daunting – we started the meeting with poems of our choice, by established poets, alive or dead, and finished by reading one that we’d just been working on. To encourage us to develop our delivery of these poems, everyone had the chance of putting their name forward to fill the monthly twenty-minutes member’s slot.
By the time my turn came round, about a year after joining, my voice had grown accustomed to this large audience and was managing to remain not only steady, but also, reasonably expressive.
It was after this reading that I was approached by an experienced poet, Don Barnard, who later became Poet Laureate of Birmingham, and asked if I’d like to be the fourth member of a group that he was putting together with one other woman and another man, both of whom lived further south, and were keen to take part in this venture.
And so my role as a member of the performing poetry group, Late Shift, began.
