Celtic Connections. Happy memories.

It will soon be a year since the Forres writer's group (ForWords) production of  'Coming Home' (eventually called 'A Moray Journey')was taken to Glasgow to be part of Celtic Connections. That will probably be my proudest moment and as I wasn't adding to this blog last year (it was a bit of an annus horribilis for our family so the less said about it the better) photos and so forth are lost for ever. Never mind, I have my memories. I think in my next incarnation, along with being a great artist and writing a classic novel, I will be a performance poet. Such a shame I came late to this possibility - on stage I become extrovert and totally unlike my every day self. It's very exhilarating.

Villanelle, Pantoums and Tankas

At the Tuesday writer's group we went through a spell of writing, or attempting to write, poetry in form.  Some of us took to this with more enthusiasm than others. One member got really good at the Sonnet and, jolly good for her, she wrote some fun ones mocking the rigidity of the rules then others using them adeptly to make her poems more moving - because that's just what form can do. It can make the simplest most mundane occurrence into a truly emotional experience.

Some time back I had accidentally discovered the Villanelle. I was thinking of submitting a poem to a particular magazine and was carefully reading the editor's guidelines when I found an instruction that took me aback. I was not to bother sending in a villanelle because he despised them. Now, I have a side to my nature I like to describe as puckish but in truth it's just contrary. An opinionated ass telling me I can't write in a certain way because he doesn't like it is very stimulating to the creative mischief maker. I  had to look up villanelles first because I'd never heard of them, but once I grasped the idea I wrote him one. I wasn't quite bold enough to send it.

                 Passing Bell.

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

Toll my hearts’ sadness through the sleeping land

Whilst curlew calls its mate on distant fell.

Take wing from grief to tremble in cold cell,

Armour myself about with mourning band,

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

Leaving brought a pain too great to tell,

To wrench away from your supporting hand,

Whilst curlew called his mate on distant fell.

The boom of foreign seas in empty shell

Where echoes of my loneliness rebound,

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

As if some evil beldame cast a spell

To hollow out the centre of my heart

Whilst curlew called its mate on distant fell.

No honeyed words or praises can dispel

The anguish, careless, caused by your deceit.

Sound melancholy note the passing bell,

Whilst curlew calls her mate on distant fell.

Yes, well. It's a lot gushier than my usual work. Still, I felt it had some thing and I've been fond of the form ever since. 

What we started with in the group was the Pantoum.  Here's what you can find on line about Pantoum's (don't you love the name? There's a pantomime horse in it, all floppy and goofy.) 

What is a Pantoum?

"A Pantoum is a type of poem with a verse form consisting of three stanzas. It has a set pattern within the poem of repetitive lines.

The pattern in each stanza is where the second and fourth line of each verse is repeated as the first and third of the next. The pattern changes though for the last stanza to the first and third line are the second and fourth of the stanza above (penultimate). The last line is a repeat of the first starting line of the poem and the third line of the first is the second of the last. Confused? Good. It gets worse in this following explanation:

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.   (Now don't you want to throw the laptop out of the window?)

A four-stanza pantoum is common,(although more may be used) and in the final stanza, you could simply repeat lines one and three from the first stanza, or write new lines. The pantoum form is as follows:

Stanza 1 A B C D

Stanza 2 B E D F

Stanza 3 E G F H

Stanza 4 G I (or A or C) H J (or A or C)  

 And finally I understood. Here's one I wrote earlier:

Atlit-Yam, Israel, Mediterranean.

Swallowed by the ocean

weevils sit eternally amongst the grain

skeletons lie peaceful in their graves.

a stone circle throbs with ancient magics

Weevils sit eternally amongst the grain

waiting to be wakened with a kiss.

A stone circle throbs with ancient magics.

fronded with brown algae, kelp and wrack

Waiting to be wakened with a kiss

from the sun they never see but greened,

fronded with brown algae, kelp and wrack

the circle dances to the rhythm of the sea. 

From the sun they never see but greened

swallowed by the ocean

the circle dances to the rhythm of the sea

and skeletons lie peaceful in their graves.

        ------------------------------

You'll notice that I haven't stuck religiously to the rules. 

Bookshop mystery.

In the secondhand bookshop where I first started a new career fourteen years ago I found a collection of Virginia Woolf’s early writings. I’m enjoying them though the style is so different to today’s writings that it is almost archaic. What has also come to me as a result of this purchase is the tantalising inscription, scribbled on the front free endpaper, to “Sandra:

‘Detachment is the last refuge of compassion, to step away from pain and observe is the only gift of an artists/scientist. He was well loved and love knows no guilt, no shame, no betrayal, only itself.’

I suppose it to be a quote from one of the stories but haven’t found it yet. I looked it up as a quote in the usual place. No luck so far. My curiousity whisker has been tickled.

'Coming Home'

Now the Neverendum is over, the right choice made (in my opinion)  I can put my focus and my writing energies elsewhere.

One event I didn’t get round to describing was a community project called ‘Coming Home.’ It was initiated by people from the new University of the Highlands and Islands which has, because of the terrain it serves, a ridiculous number of campuses across the most northern parts of Scotland. As far as I could gather this project was part of the ‘Music in the Community’ course, but I could be wrong about that. Certainly there was plenty of music involved. The writing group, and other local groups, were invited to join in the creation of a multi-media piece to arise out of the work and inspirational input from the members of these groups. All very vague, and it didn’t immediately find takers. The people who did roll along to the early meetings reported back that they were putting together a .... er ... um... thingy. Eventually, after a bit of persuasion, I went along to see what it was all about. 

They had already put in the ground-work with brain-storming sessions. They’d chosen a beautiful poem written by one of our group to open with, a violinist had composed music to follow it, and our script-writer had scripted some dialogue. Happily I had a poem I wrote ages ago called ‘Small Town’ which is a pastiche of a day in the life of the High Street (above which I lived for long enough to feel I was justified in calling myself a part of it.) ‘Quite Early One Morning ’ it isn’t but it did help pull the disparate pieces together and I was very proud to be able to read it in two parts, day and night, for the performances. (First time I have ever had a mike in front of me.) With the help of musical twiddly bits between pieces everyone’s work eventually slotted in seamlessly. We performed it twice with a visual background of film of nearbye beaches, dance, and a comedy sketch set in the weekly Coffee Morning which has become something of an institution in the Town Hall. The same folk turn up, week after week regardless of the cause that is raising money by selling them low-priced coffee and cake and setting up stalls of bric-a-bra home bakes, books, etc. Men and women alike  settle in for a good moan and a blether. 

Most importantly, there was lots of music. The piece opened, was punctuated by and ended with live music from fiddles, guitar and keyboard. 

We did it twice, once in the Tolbooth under the severe, glowering, portraits of town worthies in the Civic Chamber (perhaps not what it’s called but justice was once meted out there and sentences passed. Now the Town Council meets to wrangle over the use of Common Good land and so forth.)

Two days later we took it to Inverness, Eden Court where we performed in the Bishop’s Palace. An alarming number of men in suits were amongst the audience. Not so many suits worn in this part of the world so they are noticeable. The men inside the suits turned out to be the President and notables from the university, and an official from the whisky company who sponsored the project. It went well, was well received and by the end of that run-through I was feeling quite teary. 

At both events there was a reception with wine afterwards, so for two weeks I downed rather a lot of chilled white. Good quality too. We had the whisky company to thank for that. Very nice.

Medea - a supprising sister.

Medea.

 On Thursday last week I went into Inverness to see a live streaming of the last performance of  Medea at the National Theatre. What a thrill! We could even hear the audience in London settling as we sank into our own, extremely comfortable, seats. So exciting to be watching this without all the hassle and expense of actually traveling to London. 

I hadn’t read or seen Medea before although I knew the ghastly story. If it hadn’t been for the exceptional circumstances I doubt I would have wanted to put myself through the horrors of watching a mother decide to murder her own sons in pursuit of revenge. I certainly didn’t expect to have any sympathy with her. Before the performance we heard Helen McCrory say she didn’t think Medea was crazy or psychotic. I listened in disbelief. Half way through her  portrayal of this woman my feelings changed. 

Medea was not what might now be termed a sociopath. She was capable of love and compassion, sensible to the feelings of others, but she was temporarily maddened, unhinged, by an unbearable agony of grief and rage. She had been set calmly aside by a man whose sons she had born, and for whom she had committed dreadful acts - out of love for him. Quite unexpectedly, and rather uncomfortably, her emotion cut into some sludgy personal sewage long side sunken to the bottom of my consciousness but evidently not cleaned out. I realised that what I was feeling was not sympathy but empathy. I understood Medea. I felt what she was feeling.  I remembered once behaving like an animal in pain, lashing out at all around me in some desperate search for relief. 

Later I read the program notes. A psychologist says that the first six moths of marital breakdown are the most dangerous time for the children of that marriage. Killing them in revenge for the pain caused by the separating partner is not unknown.

The closing image of Medea dragging herself off into her terrible future, her own body bowed low, distorted, by the weight of the bodies of her dead sons was something I will never forget.

Life is enriched by poetry and crime.

So, the last entry was about the tangle of threads that is currently my grandson’s path through my personal tapestry. Worrying, but also impressive as I have been able to get glimpses of the fine man he will eventually be.

My own activities have been rich but thankfully less complicated. A neighbouring town has an annual ‘Book and Arts Festival.’ over the last ten years or so it has grown steadily until it is able to attract an impressive number of known writers and artists. I’ve rarely been to any of the events, was once involved to the extent of organising a secondhand bookdealer’s pop-up shop (in the days before pop-up shops were given that name.)  That enterprise was successful (especially for me!) although it disjointed the nose of the local bookshop owner at the time although he specialised in new books. Sigh! We weren’t invited back. 

The bookshop owner has changed and the present incumbent (female) is supportive of any literary project so, although she isn’t a fan of poetry, once a month after regular opening hours she reopens her doors for a poetry group. This group formed the core of a fringe event to the main festival: ‘Bards in the Bookshop.’ 

My good friend and stunning poet, Eileen Carney-Hulme, started the week with a reading last Monday. Mid morning three of us hit Nairn’s best restaurant for coffee and scones. At lunch time we walked up to the bookshop where Eileen did her reading beautifully, then, scooping up a couple more poetry-loving friends we went back to the same watering hole for soup and wine. This pattern was repeated, for me three days in a row, four days for some, until other events took over (the Callander Poetry Weekend for my friends, other things for me). The readings continued until Saturday, the last day of the festival. 

On that last festival day I spent the afternoon listening to three crime writers talking about their craft. The three hour program was accompanied by wine lavishly served out in the intervals. Heaven! The writer’s were Malcolm Mackay (ridiculously young Hebridean author, ridiculously good), Alex Gray, and Ann Cleeves whose ‘Vera’ series I am addicted to and whose latest series set in the Shetlands I also find irresistible. By the end of it I wanted to rush off to form a crime-lovers reading group. 

Growing up, leaving school and how to give your parents grey hair.

The last two or three weeks have been full of events, some very pleasant, some less so. That old saw about life’s rich tapestry has been on my mind. At times the tapestry becomes a tangle of threads and it’s difficult to see the pattern.

So, to start with the worrying bits. The grandson did not get the GCSE results  he had demanded of himself. Not that we, his mother and I, were disappointed, on the contrary. Considering all he has had to cope with over the last six years, any likelihood of him absorbing school subjects was much reduced.  But then came his own ambitions, suddenly announced, (probably as a result of much time spent in A&E for one injury or another.) He wants (wanted) to become a doctor. For that he needed sciences and -  gloom - maths. His grasp of mathematics is about as good as mine, which means he doesn’t have one. The subjects he has a natural aptitude for, like English, Art  and Design, they were dismissed as being ‘no use to him’ and therefore no comfort when he got creditable passes in them. He didn’t do badly in physics and chemistry either but maths, oh dear, oh dear.  

So he declared himself fed up with schooling and determined not to go back to it. He is just sixteen. In Scotland that means he can get married without parental permission and officially leave school. Mother and grandparents held their collective breath in fear. This is the point it can all go horribly wrong. Luckily we are unified in our belief that no good comes of forcing a sixteen year old, especially a stubborn and otherwise sensible one, to do what it doesn’t want to do. The time has come for a little faith in the innate intelligence and good sense of the person he is showing himself to be. Still, it was a nastily worrying moment. 

His next step took our breath away. He fixed himself up with an interview for the Navy. 

He downloaded the necessary forms, filled them in, and persuaded his quaking parent to sign them.  He wants to be a medic - or an engineer..... or...  He was very nearly accepted too. The interviewer was enthusiastic, said he was just the sort of young chap they need. Then he was given some test papers. He passed them all until the b***dy maths.  ‘Come back in six months’ he was told regretfully. ‘If we can see you have been working at your maths  then we’ll see what we can do.’ 

It turns out he has been watching documentaries, youtube clips, researching on the net, about life in the Royal Navy, for two or three years. He knows, as much as he can without the experience, what he is letting himself in for. Sharing fish and chips and a bottle of wine with him last night I was amazed by the details he has picked up.  It still seems ridiculous that this young man who disliked the institutionalised life of school so heartily, would put himself into an organisation that imposes an even stricter discipline and demand for conformity.  

Increasingly, he reminds me of his uncle who was not at all absorbed or engaged by academic subjects as they were taught in school, but once he had a purpose in mind could achieve anything he set his mind to. After years of managing water sports centres he is now on his way to becoming a chartered accountant.

What I do wish schools (governments?) could get over is the emphasis on exams. The school we chose for him was founded by a man with ideals. He saw the importance of developing the whole child, of allowing the full potential of that child to emerge. Nowadays, with league tables and the unnatural emphasis on the certain sort of intelligence that enables people to pass exams, the school has lost its way. At sixteen they are given the impression that a pass or fail will determine the whole of their future. That’s nonsense, but teenagers are intense creatures and take this to heart. It’s dangerous. They learn to define themselves by results and it is hard work to swing the emotional balance, to stop them from writing themselves off as failures.