Two Things...

Tonight's homework...

1. I'm getting less keen on poetic buzzwords. Every time I hear the word 'emerging,' I wonder if it's a  misnomer. Emerging from what precisely? Surely you either write or you don't write; you've either just started, been doing it for a few years or donkeys years. Get something half decent on a page and the 'emerger' (for the purposes of this blog post that word exists) has emerged. Just a thought.

2. On this emergent subject I am currently the keeper of 5 painted lady butterflies. I've nurtured them from the caterpillar stage in May; watched them turn into chrysalides and right now they're 3 days into butterflyhood. I help out in a Primary school on Wednesdays so I took them in and the children were fascinated. I'm keeping them in a sort of netted basket. While walking to school, a few members of the public wanted to have a look at them because they are stunning. The difficult bit will be having to let them go, adult butterflies only live for 2-4 weeks, so they're already some way of the journey. Rather than push this 'emerging' thing till it snaps, I don't feel there are any hidden metaphors. My advice to you is simple, keep some butterflies, it's wonderful and you'll make new friends. Don't worry so much about writing.

2a. The butterfly net's covered in red splodges because they drip meconium when they push out of the cocoon, apparently it's left over from the colour in the wings. The other thing that happened today was 'Hinterland' magazine appeared online. It's a brand new magazine which features work on a particular colour, this issue happens to be red. Editors Ian Parks and Becky Bird asked me for a poem which you can read here. Have a read. Submit! Red is today's colour! QED.

1) When is a Poem Finished and 2) Is it any good?

Sestina Production, mid 1960s

Hello again. How many times have you heard someone say, 'oh here's something I wrote last night?' Having been to many readings and being a 'social networker' in my case it's heard it quite a lot. I'd say that most poets drafted assiduously, cutting, re-shaping, re-ordering until they've either got something good or something which has been so heavily edited that the goodness has been sucked out of it. It's become a mouthful of over-chewed Hubba Bubba. Paul Valery said 'a poem' is never 'finished', only 'abandoned.' I'd agree but also say there's such a thing as an optimum draft.  Knowing when this is can be difficult, especially if you keep tinkering with the piece. 'Ah, but the competition deadline is tomorrow, who cares! They won't notice!' This probably isn't a good way to think about it. They will notice. It's easy to think you've written something brilliant, but give it a little rest in your notebook or hard drive. Things take time.

I haven't written much of late, but I'm hanging on waiting for something to happen. A poem takes as long as it takes, sometimes this is 3 hours and sometimes this has been 18 months. Most of the time I draft something for a little while, feel my eyes hurt, lose the will, abandon it for a while and then go back. Not all the time though. As I pursue this poetry thing more and more I am sure there will be many 'abandoned' drafts at the back of drawers that might come in for more editing at a later date. Some people, who are either very skilled or fibbing will say, 'oh I can write poems that come to me very nearly complete.' Maybe. Even so, you'd still need a bit of time to figure out if it was any good or not.

Don't force yourself to write if it's not working, STEP AWAY from the poem, go out, take a walk, clean a window, skip. Don't force it. I know I've sent off things too early and that's part of the learning curve I suppose. At least when you send something out it can stop you tinkering, and when it comes back your eyes and brain may be able to deal with it afresh. Here's Helena Nelson:

Fast or slow, it’s hard to see a poem properly when you’re close to it. They need a little time and emotional distance. Although fresh rolls are the only rolls worth eating, this analogy doesn’t work for la poésie....do not send out fresh poems. Put them in a drawer. Read them again when you can read them like a reader, not a poet. Then see how the little bastards shape up.

Helena's full post can be found here. Read it. It's very interesting.

The Michael Murphy Memorial Prize

I have been meaning to update the blog recently, but here's a short entry with some good news! Yesterday my book 'Melanchrini' was shortlisted for the Michael Murphy Memorial Prize. I'm really excited to be on a list with some incredible poets and also really happy for my publisher Nine Arches Press who also have Alistair Noon on the list as well. They have been wonderfully supportive. Also honoured to have been shorlisted for an award in memory of the poet Michael Murphy, who died in 2009.

The official website is here

Here are all the shortlisted poets:

• James Brookes, SINS OF THE LEOPARD (Salt)
• Oli Hazzard, BETWEEN TWO WINDOWS (Carcanet)
• Judith Jedamus, THE SWERVE (Carcanet)
• William Letford, BEVEL (Carcanet)
• Alistair Noon, EARTH RECORDS (Nine Arches)
• Michelle O'Sullivan, THE BLUE END OF THE STARS (Gallery)
• Maria Taylor, MELANCHRINI (Nine Arches)
• Ahren Warner, CONFER (Bloodaxe)

Thatcher, Ice Lollies and a Poem by Tom Warner

She...

It seems that everyone has got an opinion on Margaret Thatcher. It would be difficult not to to have an opinion on her as she is such a divisive figure. Since her death it feels as if everyone has time-traveled back to the 80s, reliving their 80s youth or middle age whether they were there or not. Like many people I have quite a few memories and experienced quite a lot living under Thatcher. She came into power during my babyhood. My mother and father lived in Tuxford, North Notts. My father wasn't a miner but he worked in various coal-fired power stations in South Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire. Before I was born he lived in a static caravan, much to my newly-wed mother's horror. He was a classic itinerant worker, going from job to job, saving money for a house. In the 60s and early 70s these jobs were often plentiful. By the time my mother was pregnant with me these jobs were starting to become scarce. One of my earliest memories is the sight of him coming home from work covered from head to toe in soot. His face was the colour of liquorice. Nevertheless I didn't mind getting grubby and I remember running towards him, arms out-stretched with my latest artistic creation.

Having an ice lolly under Thatcher circa '83,
blissfully unaware of my father's imminent unemployment.

Another thing I do remember very clearly is the sense of identity our village had based around coal. There were Working Men's Clubs, pub gatherings and a community that felt very close. Everyone has something to do with coal and everyone had a open fire with few people having central heating. There were many nights when fire engines came round as chimneys got blocked and sparks lit up the dark. After we moved, many years later, I opened a bin liner full of baby clothes and there it was the smell of soot. You couldn't get away from the stuff, it hung around.

We moved in 1984. Jobs related to the coal industry were becoming obsolete. I didn't want to go. London was the work of the devil. No one spoke to each other. You couldn't ride a bike in a flat with just a balcony.The other night we watched an episode of 'Spitting Image' from around this time and it seemed very edgy and controversial. It was hard to believe that this was aired on the same channel that shows 'X factor' and 'Dancing on Ice'. I'm not saying this was typical of ITV, but it appears to me there were more contrary and satirical voices around back then in TV media then there are now.There was a scene in which Margaret gets gardening advice from her neighbour at No.9, who just happens to be an aged Nazi dictator (guess who) who also enjoys dispensing political advice as well. Ironically, it's been said that pop culture was quite good under Thatcher and perhaps it's her only positive legacy for many. The Smiths may not have been The Smiths we know so well if they didn't have her to react against. We may not have had the force of feeling that defined an alternative pop generation. See below for Robert Wyatt's cover of Elvis Costello's 'Shipbuilding,' a song about the changing face of industry in the 80s. The song describes how the shipyards were kept open only because of the need for ships for the Falklands war. That voice is so naked and vulnerable. Put that in your pipe Simon bloody Cowell:

                                           http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6T9qp9XbRY


I was part of the Nottinghamshire exodus. A lot of people moved, communities were broken up and those who were left had to begin to live without a reliance on coal for heat and industry. This is why I've decided to end this blog with a poem by Tom Warner called 'Scabs.' Tom read at the Nottingham festival of Words and has a pamphlet published in the 'New Faber Poets' series. You can read more of his work at his website here. I like this poem because it reflects what was going  at the time from a child's point of view:

Scabs

All through those weeks off school our fathers watched us
our mothers took extra hours in part-time jobs

and the news was men in denim thumping coaches
police playing British Bulldog or riding horses

while Mr Oxby lined up rollies in a tin
pinched bitter shreds of Virginia from his tongue

and taught us kids exactly what was what
whose parents were digging deep and whose were not.

States of Independence '13

I have found myself with a bit of time to catch up with the blog. It's over two weeks since States of Independence was held at De Montfort University and by now most of the keen bloggers have blogged so before March is through I'll write about the event. Certainly 2013's 'States' seemed to be one of the busiest, well so it appeared to me. There were some fabulous panels, such as Ian Parks' talk on Chartist poetry; a talk on sex and censorship before 1963 by Kathy Bell, Gina Greaves and Elaine Aldred, and I read with Jonathan Taylor in the afternoon. A husband and wife act if you will. Jonathan's novel was shortlisted for the East Midlands Book Award and it was made public on the day.The shortlist also included Will Buckingham's novel The Descent of the Lyre which was a book I enjoyed reading last year. It was rather lovely to hear a reading from Alison Moore too. There was also ample opportunity to buy books as well and I purchased Angela France's Hide and Joel Lane's Flarestack pamphlet Instinct as well as others. It was also good to catch up with friends as well. If you're curious to have a look at exactly what the day consisted of have a look here.

The Opposite of Money

I have been miles away. My head is in another country. My thoughts are with my family in Cyprus, many of whom will be losing jobs, houses and a way of life they took for granted only a few weeks ago. For the last couple of weeks I have been plunged into a crash course on EU economics. I'd rather I didn't, but it's been necessary. This isn't a problem affecting a few wealthy people but an entire country. Even those with less than than the magic sum of 100,000 Euros are still going to be hugely affected. Schools and hospitals cannot afford to pay their staff. I worry that my mother, who has a long list of medical issues, won't be getting adequate health care. There is no NHS in Cyprus and right now there is no money. Of course I am scared.

Then I remember that I'm a writer. I should say 'oh, the guilt, what I do doesn't help anyone financially. I don't make any money out of poetry.' Hang on, I always knew poetry was the opposite of money, no one expected to make serious money out of writing did they? Especially poetry. I have a part-time job and I write poetry. That's me. I read this by Alison Brackenbury from 'In Their Own Words,' edited by George Szirtes and Helen Ivory: 'I think our planet is almost ruined. In poetry, as in life, I am now intent on survival...' and something struck a chord.

Then I think that writing can be liberating and that has little to do with money. I like starting a poem without a map, I don't want to write A Priori, I don't want to know where I'm going on a page even though in life I am bound to news reports, politics etc. I might have a moment of revelation and realise that I was writing about such and such after all. When I was a little girl I'd spend hours in Greek Orthodox churches. I didn't understand a word of what was going on most of the time, the services were in Middle Greek. I had one technique to keep me entertained. I'd look at the icons around me and try to make up a story which somehow plausibly involved jumping from one icon to another. One day I made up a story so terrible I burst into tears. I can't remember what it was now, but it moved me so much. The point is I was trying even then to make sense out of something that I couldn't understand, but without logic or a priori facts. Maybe that's what poets are trying to do, not bashing us with rhetoric or cold hard fact, but getting us to look differently so we realise we understood all along.

My Father the Gambler...

I am somewhat allergic to writing competitions. I tend not to enter many and when I do I go for competitions where I know the money is contributing to something important. Most of them are. Call it poetry tax. The problem is though that I cannot see how anyone goes about winning anything, it seems so random and so subjective. Obviously someone does. I recently judged a poetry competition for Leicester Writer's Club and it was a real challenge settling on the winning and commended poems. I really enjoyed that experience and wanted to be a fair and considerate judge. I took the role very seriously indeed. It made me realise that being a judge is actually not straightforward at all, especially when you're giving feedback and dealing with dozens (or hundreds, or thousands) of hopeful entries. As an entrant are you competing or gambling?

My dad is about to turn 76 this year, he has gambling running through his veins. I swear that when his ship to England from Cyprus docked in '61 he must have headed straight for the betting shop. Growing up I watched my dad alternate from feelings of elation and frustration. He never watched the horse racing on TV quietly, there'd be a lot of high speed 'cmon, c'mon' and then a barrage of swear words when the wrong horse won. He always backed the wrong horse most of the time. When he did win he seemed generally very surprised, as if losing where in fact the expected outcome and winning was something alien. Me and my dad spent a lot of 'daddy-daughter' time engaged in gambling pursuits. I spent a lot of time outside William Hill waiting for him to place his bets, they were smoky, male places. Children weren't allowed. At home he'd read out the names of horses for me to pick and him to bet on. The 1989 Grand National was a lucky one. He read out the names and 'Little Polveir' stood out. 'Yes,' I said, Little Polvier!' He grunted a comment about it only being good for dog meat and put the bet on. I didn't like the Grand National much because I knew a horse was likely to die. Still, I insisted on Little Polveir. It won. I received £20 and my dad took out a commission fee. I was in Primary School by the way.

Spot the Ball

Spot the Ball was another family favourite. It seemed more artistic than the other games, you actually had to guess where the ball might be in the picture. It was like finishing off a painting for a great master.
I'm not sure if it was my father's favourite, but I loved that one. Then of course there was the Pools, everyone played the Pools until the lottery came about. You had to guess which football teams would achieve a score draw. My dad was convinced this was a science and not random. You could guess which teams could achieve a score draw. So when I was 8 or 9 I was brought a copy of Football 87, a sticker album which featured all the teams in the top divisions. You had to buy the stickers of all the players and teams. The album also featured lots of statistics and info about the teams as well. Somehow understanding football from the inside would help. The boys in my class were very impressed and we'd swap stickers and things. I think my dad really wanted to join in as well.

Fond Memories...

One Saturday I got several score draws and my dad was happy with the promise of £11 until he realised that one more and we would have been in the thousands. Or something like that, we were always one draw, horse, or ball away from a fortune. He would scowl, bemoan his lot, vanish into the kitchen.One more draw/ball/speedy horse and we'd be millionaires. Alack! Alas! Back to work on Monday then.

Then 1994 - the lottery. No more £3 or £10 there, it was £18 million here £7 million there. The good people of Acton were quivering with expectation and my dad was among them.

'Give me 6 numbers, Maria!' That would be on  a Friday.

I'd give him six numbers. Saturday night the lottery was on TV. Six little balls and a bonus ball would levitate on air and be chosen by an unseen force. We wouldn't win. It was of course my fault.

So the years went by, as they do. There was the odd win here and the odd win there. My dad aged in front of the TV. When he comes over from Cyprus he still sneaks into William Hill. What has this got to do with the more genteel world of poetry competitions? Surely there's more skill and delicacy involved. I suppose there is, but that feeling is just the same. I grew up with my dad experiencing that feeling. I'd see him waver between joy and scowling. He once won £800 on the horses, you should have seen the smile on his face. Bless him.

Nottingham Festival of Words February 2013

Who Lives in a House Like This?

I attended the Nottingham Festival of Words both as a performer and a punter. On Saturday 9th February I read with Jonathan Taylor (we know each other pretty well) at Newstead Abbey. The Abbey is famed for being the family home of Lord Byron and is absolutely stunning. We took the twins along too and one of them was very taken with Lord Byron's indoor swimming pool, which she referred to as 'Byron's paddling pool.' There were other readings that day by C.J. Allen, Mark Goodwin and Chris Jones among others and it was a perfect location for poetry. The twins were also very impressed with a waterfall in the vast grounds of the Abbey that you could walk behind and look at the landscape through falling water.

The reading went very well and I tried out a couple of new poems too, or 'sounded them out' as I like to do with new work. Reading at the Abbey was a real treat and I'm so glad I was asked to take part.

On Saturday 16th Feb I attended the main festival at Nottingham Trent's space age Newton Arkwright building. Due to a neurotic Sat Nav in need of valium we got a little lost and missed the first reading with Sarah Jackson and Rory Waterman among others, but made it in time for lunch. I went to Deborah Tyler-Bennett's workshop to begin, Deborah was also the festival's Poet in Residence. I then had my Tarot read. The cards were friendly enough, no hanged men or falling towers, relief. Then I was in the audience for A.L. Kennedy's keynote speech and what a pleasure that was. I thought of her as a 'writer's writer' in a way, she was full of sensible comment about writing and was equally as funny as she was motivational. She has only one rule for writers, don't be afraid. There appeared to be an A.L. Kennedy wannabee groupie in the front row who couldn't resist asking lots of questions and I thought, this is the kind of writer she is, people immediately warm to her. Let's face it not all writers are personable, but Kennedy is and is genuinely committed to her craft. 

After a break with added hot chocolate I went to 'We Used To Live Here' posted by Polly Rowena Atkin with guest poets Tom Warner, Jamie McKendrick and the poetry of Eireann Lorsung. Eireann was unable to come over from Belgium to participate so Polly read one of her poems. While I was familiar with Eireann and Jamie’s work, I’d never come across Warner’s poetry before, so it was a pleasure to hear him read. You can read some of his poems here. I cam away with a copy of his Faber pamphlet. 

Then, home time! The Sat Nav, or Jane as she likes to be known, was still a little shaken and delicate so we used road signs instead. The Nottingham Festival of Words is the city's main literature festival for many years. The event is still running until the 24th. Much of its organisation was by Pippa Hennessy, thank you Pippa! 

Festival Artwork