Intersections Forum at the Courtauld

Dan Flavin, from Constructed Light

On Saturday Terri and I will be giving a paper on 'The Abandoned House' and the poetics of decay at the Courtauld's research forum, Intersections: Architecture and Poetry. It looks as though it will be a fascinating event, beginning at lunchtime on Friday and closing at 6.30pm on Saturday. Tickets are available from the Courtauld.

London Rivers

This Saturday sees the launch of the anthology, London Rivers, edited by Barbara Hardy and illustrated by her daughter, Kate. Contributing poets will gather at 5pm at the Paekakariki Press in Walthamstow to read our work; so should you find yourself near E17 in the early eve, please come and say Hello.

Mid-May Salutation

Good morning garden. Good morning blackbirds with your clicking cries. Good morning dew; good morning its reflected light. Good morning peacock call, poor lone bird in the garden of the house at the bend in the lane. Good morning stripes on Samuel's tail. Good morning sweet rocket with your evening perfume. Good morning Phill's cough, crackling at his desk. Good morning brickwork. Good morning curtains. Good morning fly on the window. Good morning cherry tree, whose flowers are fallen, whose fruits stand hard and green and tight to stem. Good morning sunlight and shadow on the trunks of ashes. Good morning browning pine cones. Good morning mole hills in my lawn and tunneling moles in the dim beneath. Good morning early summer warmth that allows me to sit here with the window wide open, to listen to the birds and the few cars which pass on the lane; that enables me to breathe the earth-scent and greenery, to breathe, as a plant might breathe, to see the branches of the pine tree wobble and see-saw as a squirrel leaps away; that allows Samuel to sit on the ledge and watch too, before me, like a figure-head, his ears swivelling, his fur twitching at every sound and scurry.

Kitting Together II

t's been such a long time since I last wrote anything here. Life has moved very fast recently: days, weeks, months have passed and every so often I've thought, I really must do something about my blog. But I haven't really wanted to do anything about it, that is, there's been nothing that I've wanted to say in public. Publishing anything here is of course a much louder way of saying it than writing it in one of my notebooks and sometimes I'd rather keep my counsel.

So, to continue on the subject of collaborative work, last Thursday Terri and I met at Charing Cross station. She took me to the British Library and we spent some hours together sitting in the courtyard, planning our joint paper on abandoned houses for a conference at the Courtauld in early June. It was a hot day and we were tired, but we soon found inspiration, nurturing Terri's brilliant little seedling idea with tea and sunlight. We came away with ideas to expand and we have lots of homework and quite a task ahead, but at least we now have a strong idea of the themes we will explore.

After leaving the B L we headed north, catching the tube to Woodside Park and walking along the stream to Terri's house. It's was a beautiful stroll: one of those London walks to bring cheer to any rural-dweller's heart. I seldom go up to London these days and whenever I do I find it exciting and stimulating, but also chaotic and a little scary. I no longer know how to cross busy roads. Either I stand at the edge, waiting for silence and space while everyone else is striding confidently between traffic, or else I fling myself into the paths of lorries and get beeped or shouted at. Several times on Thursday Terri had to hold me back or help me along and we were constantly leaping, hand in hand, off the curbs and into danger.

So we walked together beside the stream through Woodside Park and into Finchley, stopping to pick wild garlic, to watch a black Labrador swimming in a pool and to admire the allotments. We talked about poetry, novels, Terri's thesis, my work. We shared ideas, worries, opinions, scrapes.

I left Terri, her boyfriend Neil and Leslie, their cat, early the next morning. I felt lonely without them and missed Terri's company on the long tube ride back to Charing Cross. I watched the moments of contact between strangers: a young guy who picked up the pages that fell out of the magazine a woman was reading and handed them back to her; one man who asked another to pass a spare newspaper. These small exchanges were delicate, hesitant, but they were also warm and full of significance, all the more so perhaps for their rarity. It seems we can't help being kind to one another, making contact, sharing something of ourselves, however small.

Knitting Together I

've been holding onto this post for some time, mulling it over, perhaps killing it with too many edits, letting it slide, extending it so that I've had to chop it in two. Today I've resolved to press that 'Publish Post' button at last.

I've also been thinking a lot about what it means to share one's writing and to write with others. I do quite a lot of social writing, partly to try to fight my tendency towards solitude, and I gain a great deal from doing so. As Pat Schneider says, 'Having a place to listen thoughtfully to new work by others and having the option of receiving response to your own writing can be invigorating, encouraging and tremendously helpful'. It can indeed.

The last piece I published here was Sandy's poem for Martin Luther King. It was a piece she first read to me at a Chalk Circle (post-MA group) meeting. Our group usually gets together once a month when we continue the good work we began together on the course by setting deadlines to write to, giving feedback on each other's writing and providing a hand to hold, sometimes figuratively, sometimes physically.

So, at the end of January, there were four of us: Sharon, Sandy, Ali and I, sharing some of our recent work and giving praise and criticism where they were due. Sandy read her poem. As she did so I was aware of a sensation I have often felt around my fellow writers: a creeping, sulking envy. Sandy's poem was annoyingly good. She had played with the struggle of creating a complete work in twenty-one syllables and had made that struggle an integral part of her poem. I listened as she read, at our request, a second and then a third time, apologising as she did so for the poem's lack of polish; and I hated her then, just a little, though I smiled in encouragement and sang its rightful praises.

There is a reason I confess all this to you: whenever I feel writing envy, I know it's a good thing. It means my fellow writer has inspired me, is keeping me on my toes. I hope it means I won't become flaccid and arrogant, although perhaps it's already too late for that. It may be an obvious thing to say, but it seems to me that sharing work, whether it happens online or in a conventional writing group or a classroom, is useful not just for the person whose work is critiqued, but for everyone who reads it.

After hearing Sandy's piece I wondered how I might learn from my writing envy. In the end I decided to weave two of the Street Photography Now instructions together, so that the first twenty-one syllable piece would lead into the second. The first instruction was to, 'Look for a window, through a window, out of a window, or at the reflections on a window,' and the second, 'Slow down. The next picture may be very quiet and close.'

Here they are. They're for Sandy, with thanks for making me so envious.


At the lane's edge, the puddle
is grey-brown ripples,
like a mackerel.
I stand, looking down.

In the field behind
a man taps his spade on his barrow.
His coat is wagtail yellow.

Sandy Tozer, In Praise of Martin Luther King in 21 Syllables

If you were there
America would not have
White Houses would be left empty
For telling stories and real news

Too many

If you were there
America would not and
We'd praise you
Like Griots in a southern mall

Still too many

If you were here
I'd sing and kiss your sweet, sweet face
Because there are words
To call the blues

***Sandy wrote this piece on 17th January, Martin Luther King Day. It's a reply of sorts to my own twenty-one syllable pieces. Sandy says it's a work in progress; I say I wish I'd written it.

Street Photograph VI in Twenty-One Syllables

Among frowns, hoods, umbrellas
I look for a sign of love
as rain almost connects us.