Fifteen days of poetry in spring

It's been a wonderful couple of weeks of poetry. First, it was the Lyra Bristol poetry festival, and although work commitments prevented me from going to a few events, I did manage to attend an online workshop led by Malika Booker, and I got to see my poetry hero, Ilya Kaminsky, who was one of the headline poets, and who lived up to my sky-high expectations.

And it was a  joy to have him sign my treasured copy of 'Deaf Republic', all battered and filled with notes from when I wrote an essay on it while I was studying for my Masters degree at Manchester Writing School. 

Talking of which, I also attended a showcase featuring some of the poets I studied with a few evenings ago, albeit online. This was my view for most of the evening, but no matter, the poems sounded great.

Throughout this past winter, the IsamBards, whose swan song it is this year, have been working hard, putting together an anthology of their poems, featuring poems from poetry walks held in the centre of Bristol and its floating harbour, the Bristol Botanic Garden, and Arnos Vale Cemetery, plus further sections entitled 'Brunel' and 'Books'. And now, at last, the anthology, called 'Dancing on the bridge', is in the world.

To accompany it, we've done three recent poetry walks, the first one - as part of Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival - on Bristol's waterfront. 

An interlude - with dog - on Narrow Quay

Reading at Pero's Bridge

Part of our rapt audience, which included John Cabot 

At Mud Dock, our final stop

Eight days later, we found ourselves at Arnos Vale Cemetery for two walks, this time as part of Bristol Walk Fest.

The ram's skull I found in Evilcombe on Dartmoor, many years ago, made an appearance as Yorick's skull during one poem

Our guide for the morning walk, Janine, at George Müller's grave

I'm always touched when flowers brimg themselves to a grave

Our guide for the afternoon walk was Alix, and her and Janine's knowledgeable presence made for fascinating walks.

magpie feather

With thanks also to the butterfly, which fluttered by while Janine was talking about Psyche, the goddess of the soul, who's often depicted with butterfly wings and who's the origin of the butterfly as a symbol for the soul, and to the sparrowhawk, which made an appearance seconds after IsamBard Dominic Fisher read his poem 'Sparrow', which features one.

And of course, my collection 'Love the Albatross' has continued to make its way in the world.  In addition to the reading I did in Totnes, also during this wonderful fortnight of poetry, Nigel Kent has kindly published both a short essay, written by me, on one of its poems - 'The counsel of hares' - which can be read here, and his own highly perceptive and empathetic review on the whole collection, which can be read here. 

Finally, from the same collection, my poem 'A betrayal', which was first published in issue 4 of The Fig Tree's online journal, has made its way into the 2024 anthology of poems, published by Tim Fellows of Broken Spire Press - many thanks to him also.

A birthday hedgehog

 

How lovely birthdays become as old age approaches. No need any more to spend the evening partying, or perched on an uncomfortable bench in a restaurant, before going home to do battle with one's digestive system, armed only with a blister-pack of Gaviscon - no, these days we go out for breakfast, which is a far more civilised time to be out on the town. This year we went to Riverstation. As the name suggests, it occupies part of the original course of the River Avon that is now Bristol's Floating Harbour, and is roomy and dog-friendly. We sat snugly at our table in the window and watched Storm Ashley do its worst for an hour or so.

Can I have some avocado on flatbread, Mam?

Well, maybe not quite its worst. That was reserved for when we stepped outside to hurry the two minutes back to our car, only to get absolutely drenched when the skies opened. 

The final advantage of this arrangment is that it frees up the early evening for birthday cake, this year white chocolate and raspberry, in the company of the 25% of my children who were in Bristol on the day. 

I had some lovely old lady presents too: an Alaskan Husky faux fur warming throw at which Cwtch the Collie actually turned up her nose; a bunch of my favourite anemones from my children; and a plant and books on art and poetry from friends. Even a book I'd treated myself to - 'Powsels and Thrums', a collection of essays by my favourite author, Alan Garner - turned up with perfect timing.

I also went for a couple of walks. On Saturday afternoon my friend of 58 years, Liz, joined me and we had a wander around Three Brooks Nature Reserve at Bradley Stoke, followed on Sunday by a squelch around Charlton Common, once the sun came out. 

On the way to the latter, I slowed at a junction near the local church, only to glance down and see a young and still quite small hedgehog pootling about in the middle of the road, just a few inches from the wheel of my car. It was almost the colour of the fallen leaves around it, and I had a horrible feeling that unless we intervened, it would come to a tragic, if somewhat predictable, end. So I pulled over and the Northerner scooped it up and deposited it in the churchyard, safe from passing cars (for as long as it stays there).

And later we learnt there are other hogs living there, and a hedgehog house installed by the council, so clearly it'll be a good place to hibernate in.

 

And the encounter with the hoglet was, of course, the best present of all. 

The IsamBards in the City on Shakespeare Day

One year and thirteen days after the last IsamBards in the City walk, we found ourselves at it again, on Shakespeare Day this time, and with our full complement of Bards this time too. 

This time we started at Electricity House, a Grade II listed 1930s landmark, which we always called the SWEB building when I was growing up in the 1960s and 70s, and which is now, inevitably, 'luxury student accommodation'. 

We started with an introduction from Professor Lucy English, Poetry Queen of Dragons and Joint Director of the Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival, of which our walk was one of the events, and we were off, starting with David Johnson who gave a potted poetry history of Electricity House.

Dominic conjures an Electric Fish Market

This is me reading a poem about nearby Christmas Steps.

We then wandered down the Centre to our next stopping point, the now empty plinth where the statue of notorious slaver, Edward Colston, once stood.

Pameli reading 'In the Centre of the City'

Remembering George Floyd

Cwtch enthralled by the story of what happened here before she was born

It was then time to head to our next stop, down by the statue of Neptune and the Hippodrome.

Alfie the whippet studies his paws in rapt concentration ...

... although Neptune has rather rudely turned his back

Pameli reading her poem 'Mr Matchem's House of Marvels'

Our next stop was at the head of St Augustine's Reach on the Floating Harbour, which almost has a view of the Central Library and was therefore just the right spot for a communal poem protesting the threatened and revoked and then re-threatened plan of the Mayor to sell that beautiful Arts and Crafts building (which is ours, actually) and rehouse it in the empty Debenhams building, or Joneses as it used to be, over in Broadmead.

'Or sell our Central Library / sell everything it means / but beware its darkened aisles / in the library of your dreams' 

Our penultimate stop was further along Narrow Quay, within sight of Pero's Bridge, where we remembered one of the few slaves in Bristol whose name (albeit only his slave name), birthplace and dates we know.  

I also read a poem about a little known, but grim episode in Bristol’s history concerning three Inuit captives – a man, a woman from a different tribe and her infant son – who were brought to Bristol by Captain Martin Frobisher, following his voyage to Canada in 1577. He’d planned to present them to Queen Elizabeth I but all three died before that could happen, within weeks of their arrival.

 

I was a bit disconcerted to realise we were standing right outside the room where my wedding reception was held almost 37 years ago, but then the Northerner reminded me that reading poetry in that spot was the perfect way to lay any residual ghosts and he was right.

Our final stop was nearby Queen Square, which used to be a marsh before the River Frome was diverted in the 1240s and which contains a fanciful statue of King William III dressed as a Roman Emperor and sitting on a steed, both of which points of interest were referred to in various poems.

'It was all right as these things go,' said Cwtch, 'but there was only one mention of bones and no dogs whatsoever.'

Four IsamBards