Drawing attention to poetry

Adding further weight to the argument that Corby is the go-to place around here for unexpected arts events, I was at the town's theatre last night, The Core at Corby Cube, for an event organised by the Northamptonshire Children's Book Group, a branch of the Federation of Children's Book Groups*.

Author and illustrator Chris Riddell, former Children's Laureate, was in town promoting his new anthology, Poems to Fall in Love With. He was already in situ as the audience rolled in, sitting behind a desk sketching, with the images being presented on to a screen. Also on stage were our readers for the evening: local actors Will and Sue, and Elaine, a student from one of the town's senior schools.

It was an interesting format. Chris chatted amiably about the poems and then as one of the readers stepped forward he sketched an appropriate illustration, live, right there, before your very eyes, replicating the fabulous images that accompany the poems in the book. Several lucky people went home with one of the pictures.

The book is beautiful inside and out, with a cover that just makes you want to stroke it and a broad selection of poems ranging from Kate Tempest to Sylvia Plath, Leonard Cohen to William Blake, and all points in between.

It was a great evening and Chris was generous with his time as we queued up to get our copies of his book signed. I know from speaking to the organiser that he'd had a pretty full-on day, but you wouldn't have known it from the way he engaged particularly with the youngsters, posing for selfies and chatting as though he had all the time in the world. What a nice man.

* Check out this organisation if you have any interest at all in children's literature - and who doesn't?

An evening with John Greening

Northants Writers Ink had an open evening yesterday, so I went along to hear poet John Greening talk about and read some of his work. Writing poetry is a new thing for me, so this was a welcome opportunity to get close to someone who knows how to do it. Read about him here.

It was a lovely, relaxed evening. John is one of the most un-poety poets I've ever come across. I bought one of his books, To the War Poets, on the back of which a reviewer writes that he is 'a serious (but never excessively solemn) poet, who cares about both 'facts' and ideas and makes his poetry out of the interpenetration of the two'. I couldn't have put it better.

Speaking to him after his presentation, he said that very often when he sits down to write, the end product isn't what he thought it was going to be. You might think you've got an idea for a few verses on, say, windmills, but then you find you've written an ode to your grandmother! 

He talked about form and structure, too, with particular emphasis on the sonnet. This is something I need to explore, I think, if I'm ever going to produce anything worthwhile. Mind you, he did also say that the pleasure comes from the writing, from finding that perfect word, whether or not it's ever going to be read. I shall take comfort from that.

In the meantime, I am involved in a project for which I have said I will write a poem called 'Bag For Life.' I have to start somewhere!

'Let her have time, and silence,

enough paper to make mistakes and go on.'

from 'The Poet' by Jane Hirshfield

Ow foot toe crate

I've just been sidetracked into listening to an episode of Tongue and Talk: the dialect poets on th'i-player. I'm supposed to be proofreading something about logistics, but when your mother sends you an intriguing email it would be rude not to follow it up.

Mum is a real poetry buff: she reads it, writes it and performs it, usually from memory, which always impresses me. It seems this gift extended to her Aunt Lucy, who Mum says was as deaf as a post but nonetheless partial to a little recitation.

One of her party pieces was a poem called 'Bowton's Yard', by Yorkshire born but Lancashire bred dialect poet Samuel Laycock (1826-93), 'Laureate of the Cotton Famine'. This gem was based on a real terrace in Stalybridge, where Laycock lived, called Bolton's Yard. It describes in turn the inhabitants of this row of houses and was, apparently, a huge influence on Tony Warren, creator of Coronation Street. It's not hard to see why. You can listen to it here.

I was brought up in Uttoxeter in Staffordshire (or, as we would say, Utcheter in Staffyshire) and still have a few dialect words in my vocabulary (nesh, mardy, two-double, plattin' em), but I haven't really got a Staffs accent - except when I get angry or have spent too long back home with the folks. If you want to know what it sounds like, say the title of this post. It means 'How to speak correctly.'

Ta-ra. Let thee sen art.

Celebrate the small things: January round-up

I know there are still a few days to go, but this is the last Friday of the month: the day when I send out my invoices and pay my bills, which this month includes the dreaded Tax Bill. So this seems as good a day as any to look back and celebrate what I've done during January on the writing front.

As well as my day job editing and teaching, I have:

• Written and submitted a commissioned article on aubergines
• Entered four short story competitions
• Submitted stories to three magazine - one of which has replied they'd like to keep my story for possible future use, which, while not a 'yes' is definitely not a 'no'

Last night I paid my first visit to a local poetry group. Well, I say poetry, but actually although poems are the foundation they welcome 'artists' in the broadest sense, so I crept in under the wire as a writer and appreciator. I was slightly nervous, because I'm not a poet and I feared it might have been a bit over my head, but everyone was very welcoming, the nibbles were excellent and a good time was had by all. I shall probably go again.

That's all for now. Have a good weekend, folks.

Join the celebration: share your news on the bloghop Celebrate the Small Things  hosted by  Lexa's Blog.

Making connections and weaving words

I was co-host at a yoga workshop yesterday, which is always a lovely way to spend an afternoon. What was particularly nice this time was that everyone there knew at least one other person; sitting in a circle, there was a complete chain link through the whole group. We did some bending and stretching, working through chakras and making the best of the autumn sunshine. (Apparently it rained at home, which was all of half an hour away.) We finished, as always, with deep relaxation. Bliss!

There was a nice connection this afternoon, too, when on the spur of the moment I went to the Weaving Words writing group run by Kezzabelle, our local performance poet and all round good egg. Who should open the door, but one of my former yoga students!

One of the exercises we did together was to write a list of all the things we'd done in our lives that we were proud of. I found this incredibly difficult - in fact, we all did. I could remember doing well in a primary school, but beyond that... After some discussion/therapy, we picked one thing off our preliminary list and worked it up into the beginnings of something literary. Because I'm not very good at it, and because Kezza is a poet, I thought I'd have a go at something verse-like. All I can say is, if they ever need someone to rework Rupert the Bear, I'm the woman for a job.

Work in progress? Definitely!

Poetry: day four

Howitt Place

For day four of my poetry selection (see Monday's post) I'm going back to my childhood with 'The Spider and the Fly' by Mary Howitt. Most people will know the first verse, but perhaps not the rest of it. My childhood connection with this poem is that I grew up in a house called Howitt Place, which is where Mary once lived (when it was known as Botham House). As well as being an acclaimed writer and poet, Mary Howitt was also a keen promoter of children's literature (she translated Hans Andersen's fairy tales into English) and she was a social activist, speaking out for women's equality and the abolition of slavery.

‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly,

‘’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.’

‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’

‘I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?’ said the Spider to the Fly.

‘There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!’

‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘for I’ve often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, ‘Dear friend what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;

I’m sure you’re very welcome – will you please to take a slice?’

‘Oh no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘kind Sir, that cannot be,

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!’

‘Sweet creature!’ said the Spider, ‘you’re witty and you’re wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.’

‘I thank you, gentle sir,’ she said, ‘for what you’re pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.’

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

‘Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple – there’s a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!’

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue –

Thinking only of her crested head – poor foolish thing! At last,

Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour – but she ne’er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

 

The rear view of Howitt Place: that's me on the steps beneath a 1980s perm