24 Sept 2013

Culture Day in the bookshop

Brian and Tez, two jolly readers.




Miriam's book is doing so well - self-publised first as an ebook, now  as a real book, she has  had a positive review in the Mail. the death of her husband whilst her children where very young is the beginning - but not the end. she's aware Irish woman with a wealth of humour and uncommon good sense. The title was to be 'Jesus Farted'  but this is a more modest choice that reflect her iconoclastic yet respectful attitude to - a lot of things!

A friend has put just a few of his exceptional life into this book. the time he spent in South America gives an insight into cultural ways that have probably long since disappeared. No less interesting are his memories of childhood in Scotland.
.......and here are some of Fiona's cards
Crawford's cards
and more of Fiona's....

A mind-stretching book, not for the narrow of vision. Based on an ancient text it tells why women should have always been in charge.

13 Sept 2013

Friday 13th

To cut to almost the end first, it hasn't been a Bad Day, the denouement to this tale is cheerful.

 Without realising it was the 13th I had been dreading Friday all week because I'd agreed to drive a friend an hour or so along the coast to a nice town with books and antiques. I didn't want to, but hadn't the heart to tell him.

Yesterday I texted him to suggest we left earlier than usual (the tradition is for an 11am kick off when questing for real ale and soup more locally). There was no reply, which is unlike him. This morning I kicked my heels a bit, phoned him several times, got no answer, started to worry.... went round... curtains drawn...no reply... he isn't a well man....

There was a cryptic text on Wednesday. 'Nice window. Might have to fly south.' I thought he was being sarcastic as it was raining heavily, and that he poetically imagined himself flying south with the birds. I was totally sure he would have been clearer if he meant anything else - after all we had a firm appointment with fish'n chips this week (and real ale.)

So I tried the neighbours. No answer. So I went to the police station. They told me it was the Right Thing Do Have Done.

Of course it was. But I still feel like a duffus. They raised a neighbour (surely I don't look THAT English or like a Witness?) They got a key, found no collapsed person, rang NHS, no admittance.... He must be OK

But he won't be when he gets home.

Quandary.


Wednesday was a thought-provoking day.The first Nadfas lecture of the new season was a presentation of Joaquín Sorolla, a Valencian Spanish painter working at the turn of the last century. He is chiefly famous for his depiction of light, and the paintings he is best known for are beach scenes with children and women in gossamer clothing. I loved them. As far as I could tell everyone else at the lecture seemed to love them too. My friend, who is herself an artists, hated them. She thought them shallow and kitsch. I might have heard her mutter ‘chocolate box.’ For me on a grey day at the end of a beautifully bright and light-filled summer they were as welcome as the bowl of sunflowers, mimicking the missed sunshine in my living-room.

In one of those lightbulb moments I realised I’ve been having the same feelings of irritation as my artist friend about ‘nice’ poetry that seems to me shallow, and whatever the verbal equivalent of kitsch is. Once they would have been disparagingly termed ‘low-brow,’ but now that term sounds snobbish, so very unfashionable. The buzz-word is ‘accessibility.’ Poetry has to be ‘accessible.’ Easily understood, immediate in its impact, with obvious, sentimental or overly dramatic imagery that doesn’t cause the reader a furrowed brow. Poetry like this is proliferating like dandelions and ragwort, both highly successful weeds.

At school we read Chaucer in the original. It was a challenge and I loved it. I loved the sound of Middle-English. I loved Shakespeare and Milton. They could be a challenge too; we had to learn a little of the language and culture of their days to fully appreciate them. William Blake - not a magazine read! T.S.Eliot. Virginia Woolf. Yeats. James Joyce. Not pool-side reading but all opening our minds into new worlds. 

I’ve continued to like a challenge in my literature, something that make me think, gives me a new gestalt of life around me. My almost complete lack of formal education in visual art (I’ve been to a shed-load of exhibitions in my time) means I’m generally content to be pleased with a first impression that doesn’t make me exercise my brain or open new windows of enlightenment. I’m generally happy for visual art to be merely ‘accessible.’ 

But not poetry.

Of course it does mean that my own poems are acceptable. But is a club that will let me in worth joining?

Later. I came across an interview with Mary Oliver who a poet I sometimes admire and sometimes and bored by. At the end of the interview she said:


"One thing I do know is that poetry, to be understood, must be clear," Oliver adds. "It mustn't be fancy. I have the feeling that a lot of poets writing now are, they sort of tap dance through it. I always feel that whatever isn't necessary shouldn't be in a poem."
There were several waspish comments about this on the NPR site but none said what I thought: Quite often all M.O.herself gives is a picture of what she has seen in the natural world around her. She doesn't give a new experience at all. So does this mean her poems are all unnecessary - at least unnecessary to me? We all make remarks without thinking but this one I find rather provocative.


8 Sept 2013

Faslane and Festivals


A friend of mine has just returned from two months at the Faslane Peace Camp, outside the Naval Base where the Trident missiles are stored. The camp has been going for 30 years or more now and she feels a new approach is needed to raising awareness. The probability is they've been there so long everyone is used to them so they are seen as a harmless fact of life by the authorities and mostly ignored. If Alex Salmond has his way the warheads will be moved from Scottish waters in time (at eye-watering expense) but that will only makes them ‘Someone Else’s Problem’ (see ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’) and isn’t going to help the British Isles much if the wretched things blow up.

 It’s a laudable way to have spent the summer. Not one I would ever choose - far too basic and uncomfortable.  Most off-putting of all to me, a squeamish person, is the way they subsist by dumpster-diving. It could, she admits, be a smelly experience, but they often ate very well. Tesco in this area fence everything round and don’t let it happen; fortunately not all supermarkets are so uncharitable. Stall-holders at the local weekly market in the town near the camp give them boxes of unsold fruit and veg so cherries, grapes and good fresh green stuff were frequently on the menu. A fishmonger gave them crabs. She claims to have an iron stomach and came to no harm; went to sleep nightly dreaming of the possibility of avocados. 

She didn’t write any poetry but lots of diary entries so we may suppose she will have something to contribute to the writer’s group soon. There was a party on Friday to celebrate one of our members whose submission to the BBC Proms Poetry Competition was accepted as a runner-up. We hoped to hear it read but they boringly talked too long with the winner. Still, we celebrated with brandy cocktails and blinis which Mine Host had concocted to  set us a puzzle. Each tiny blini was topped with delicacies that had the initials of a famous poet, e.g: Rabbie Burns = radish with beetroot relish. W.H.Auden = watercress, hummus, avocado. Walter Scott = watercress and shrimp. Samphire figured somewhere, perhaps Stephen Spender - I got a bit addled after a while, what with all the brandy.   

For the first time ever I read a poem at a poetry reading event in the neighbouring town that’s been having a Book Festival. I braced myself, read it, sat down shaking at my own temerity, wishing I hadn’t been so bold. Someone looked me out after to say she had really enjoyed it so that made it all worth while.  I’ve had a poem accepted for the Essex Literary Anthology which will be launched on 5th October at the end of their Literary Festival, and had I been going down south as planned I could have been there. Never mind. I’m chuffed.

3 Sept 2013

A good summer.

Enhanced to show ripples. The small shivering figure didn't get much further in - I think he had reached that critical  depth when strong men blench.

No enhancement. I wish I could paint.

Again - wishing I could paint.

15 year old boys have no hips to hold up shorts......

Just launched.
Autumn is on its inexorable way in. The heating went on for an hour or two yesterday and the lights were on in parts of the house by 8.30pm. The beginning of the dark days. With that in mind it was important to add photos to remind me of what has been a wonderful summer. Neither too hot, nor too wet, and only recently rather too windy, it has been the best I remember for a long time.