Launching an Albatross

First thing on Tuesday morning I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw something had altered in the eyes looking back at me. And I could feel the woman-who-reads-the-poems - the one I stand just behind at readings, marvelling as she rises to the occasion - making her move early, to hold my hand through the day at work and the difficult rush hour drive down town to the John Sebastian Lightship moored at Bathurst Basin, and step forward at the appropriate moment to launch a handful of albatrosses into the Bristol night. So lucky to have her at my side! 

MC for the night was local poetry supremo, Helen Sheppard, another pair of very safe hands. And first, guest readings from Melanie Branton and Chaucer Cameron, two of the most gifted poets and generous women I know, who both understood the cost of writing these poems and launching them into the world. I was so privileged to have them agree to read alongside me. 

My selection of poems was followed on a Q&A on the subject of writing from trauma, hosted by counseller and former director of Poetry Can, Colin Brown.

 For anyone who's interested, here's a transcript of the question and answer session:

Question:  You mentioned what a very difficult subject estrangement is to talk about, and yet you’ve written a book of poems on that very subject, which you now have to share with the world. What made you decide to do it?

Answer:   I don’t think you can always control which poems turn up and when, and there came a point, about four years ago, when these were definitely the sort of poems that wanted to be written.

Question: Do you know why that was?

Answer:   Well, the latest estrangement from my child was showing every sign of lasting a lot longer than the previous one, so writing poems was a way of engaging with the situation without having to talk about it and risk shame or the judgment of other people, because of course at first it was in private.

Question: Perhaps it was also a way of maintaining a connection with your child? 

Answer:  Oh, the connection was there all right. Writing the poems was a way of managing it, without impinging on their desire for no contact.

 Question:  What do you mean by managing that connection?

Answer:  Well, as I said during the reading, sometimes the relationship you have with someone who isn’t physically in your life is even more intense than if they were present.

 Question:  And that must take a toll emotionally?

Answer: Yes. Before I started writing the poems, it felt like I was experiencing all the stages of grief, all at the same time, every day.

Putting all that emotion into poem-sized chunks and working at them meant I could explore it in a measured way, using metaphor and story to try to make sense of it.

Question:  Yes, because you’re not ranting or seeking validation for your own individual situation here, are you?

Answer: Oh, I definitely wanted to avoid that, because that would have stopped the poems making connections with other people. They had to be art, which meant they had to leave room for the reader to inhabit with their own experiences.

 

Question: And there were your child’s feelings to consider too?

Answer: Absolutely. Above all, they had to respect and preserve my child’s privacy. That’s always been really important to me.

  

Question:  So, what steps did you take to ensure you did that?

Answer:   Well, not long before the poems started to materialise, my mother broke her hip and went to stay with my sister, who lives in the Midlands, while it mended. And then the pandemic started and she had to stay there, and I suddenly found myself with considerably more free time. So I quickly signed up for an MA in Creative Writing, and used that as a framework for writing ethically about trauma. 

  

Question:  How did you do that?

Answer:  In the first instance, I studied and wrote essays on poets who engage with personal material and are emotionally authentic without compromising their integrity or privacy … Elizabeth Bishop and Denise Riley spring to mind.

Question: Did the course also affect your own practice? 

Answer: Yes, I became very strict with the content of my own poems, making sure that they revealed emotional truths but not ‘my truth’, because you can be sure my version of events isn’t how my child sees things.

  

Question: And this is where the ethics come in?

 Yes. I didn’t think it would be fair to use my platform, such as it is, to deny their truth, even if it doesn't fit with mine.

  

Question:  ‘The stories we tell ourselves to justify our actions’ is an idea that appears at various key points in this collection – in fact, there’s a thread of poems about it. Why is this important to you?

Answer:   I don’t know if everyone does this, but I definitely think writers - and artists in general - tell themselves stories in order to make sense of difficult situations.

  

Question: And some of the poems hint at stories taking over and getting out of control … 

 Answer: Yes, and that’s to be avoided at all costs. Your relationship with your story has to remain a truthful one, and that applies whether you’re making art about the situation you find yourself in or just living it. 

  

Question:  Finally, you facilitate poetry writing groups in Bristol. If someone asked you what your ONE best tip for writing about a deeply personal issue, what would you tell them?

Answer: I’d say … exploit the unique nature of poetry. It’s a collaborative art, so always leave space for the reader to bring their own experience.

One way of doing this is to write ‘ghost’ poems – ones which convey your story without actually telling it, so that instead of splurging every last detail, you simply communicate the emotional truth of the matter.

And if I can add a second tip! – read poets who do this well, like Selima Hill, Sharon Olds, Ruth Stone, Caroline Bird, Kim Moore … there are so many of them. 

The ensuing questions from the audience were thoughtful and insightful and the evening ended on a very warm and positive note. 

Then it was time to heave a bit of a sigh of relief and head for home, where a chilled bottle of champagne and a warm dog were waiting. 

With many thanks to Indigo Dreams Publishing, Colin Brown, Helen Sheppard and the Satellite of Love Poetry and Open Mic team, Katie Marland, Melanie Branton and Chaucer Cameron. 

'Love the Albatross' is available to buy from the Indigo Dreams website. 

So Much More Than The View ... National Association For Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty/National Parks

I love leaving the house (and the vague notion that I should be doing some housework) to go walking, preferably in the country. For me it's an intrinsic part of the writing process, and I am hugely lucky that my home city of Bristol is ringed by the Wye Valley/Forest of Dean, the Cotswolds, and the Mendips, and that at a slightly greater radius lie the Gower, the Brecon Beacons, the Malverns, the North Wessex Downs, Cranborne Chase and the West Wiltshire Downs, and the Quantocks.

And when I holiday, invariably in Devon, I can see Dartmoor from the hills behind my family's caravan, while the Blackdowns, North, East and South Devon, Dorset, the Tamar Valley, Cornwall, and Exmoor are all within easy reach.  So much variety and interest - and all of them either Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty or National Parks.  

So I was delighted when our postman turned up with several copies of So much more than the view, a joint publication from the National Association For Areas Of Outstanding Natural Beauty and National Parks England, which highlights the benefits such areas offer society. 

It turns out that the AONBs and National Parks in England cover more than a quarter of the country and welcome more than 260 million visitors per year.  They also provide inspiration for artists and writers (like me) and sporting people (not like me); homes for people and wildlife; thousands of jobs; and life-enhancing experiences for people of all ages.

Given that these areas are so vital to the country's economy and to the health and well-being of so many, it does therefore seem surprising that public spending on AONBS and National Parks is less than £1 per person per year.  They need more investment from the government to continue to protect these places and to promote sustainable growth within communities. I support these aims, which is why I was delighted that my poem, Coleridge Changes His Library Books, from my first collection, Communion, was quoted in part in the brochure, as an example of how these places can be inspirational.  

In fact, my poem about Coleridge, who famously walked his way around the West Country,  takes its inspiration from visits I made to the Quantocks, Exmoor, the Wye Valley, the Mendips and East Devon - no less than four AONBS and one National Park.   

At the launch of the brochure back in June, the Environment Minister Rory Stewart asserted that we have a 'deep obligation to protect this land, its farms and its communities', and that 'while we celebrate the fact that they have also to potential to bring prosperity, we must never reduce such places simply to their economic value – they are so much more than that.'  Whether this will translate into more government investment remains to be seen.  Certainly such statements seem to be at odds with permitting fracking companies to drill horizontally under national parks and other protected areas, to give just one example of the way these landscapes are under threat.  

In the meantime, we can voice our opposition to such initiatives, visit our special places and support their local businesses, support the AONBS and National Parks by donating, volunteering, putting our car parking money in the honesty box, etc. And we can keep on walking, learning and writing; painting, photographing and sculpting; telling the stories and histories of these places; and letting everyone know how vital - yet fragile - they are. 

As for the bit about being a household name, well, thanks, guys, but I don't think 

that's the case even in this house, given that the dog seems to think I'm called Mum.  But I'll still keep visiting and keep writing. 

J'accuse ... Rover!

For a long time I've blamed this:

for this:

But I'm doing a poetry workshop in a few days' time about childhood and where we come from and I've been gathering a few bits and pieces that are triggers for writing about my past: a thruppenny bit, black and white photos, an old school exercise book, a  red hardback Famous Five book. I've bought some things too: Green Shield stamps, Black Jacks and Fruit Salads ... and this:  

God, I remember it so well!  My first reading book. And the joy of reading it all by myself.  The heady independence!  

I mean, I can still recite it.  And suddenly I am four all over again.

I remember the eponymous dog also.  Rover!  He was black, he was. And quite big.  He loved playing with his ball.  He was - 

A BLOODY BORDER COLLIE!

J'ACCUSE ROVER! 

Treasure In The Attic

Finally, when the accumulated detritus of 20 years must go ...



... the rusted locks of my mother's old suitcase have to be bust open.

And inside, treasure!  

At least if you're a writer. Because which of us wouldn't give our eye-teeth to re-glimpse the world as we knew it at six years of age?

Between the uniform grey covers of Gloucestershire Education Committee's school exercise books, there are stories and news!

So what was little Deborah's world like, 47 years ago?  Well, funnily enough, not that different.  

Tuesday 20th June

I went to a party and I was not invited.  

We are going to Devon and while were dawn there Mummy and daddy our buying me a budgerigar. Thay gave me a cage for by briday but they did not give me a budgerigar yet and I know way because he may die and we would not like that.  If he does not die we are going to teach him to talk.

Yesterday it was remembrance day and we had to minutes silence and my threepenny bit dropped ... Aunty Betty's brother died in the war and the man said Ken reed and that is Auntie Betty's brother

I have one Nanny and no Grammy my Grammy died my other Nanny died and my other Grammy died too. my Nanny may die if she does I will have no Nanny or Grammy then what shall we do 

It's not all death and anxiety ...

Thursday 28th September

At Shaldon there is an ness.  which is called the mouth of the river tame you can walk. We go up into a field and we have a rest. and then we go down by the duck pond.

... but the child is clearly the mother of the woman.

Wednesday 15th November

Yesterday I fell off my scooter. I hurt my nose, my leg and my lep.  My lep bled and mummy held her handkerchief to it and then she gave the handkerchief to me and I held it to my lip. Mummy felt so sorry for me. Mrs Fowlls [my teacher] saw me but she did not say anything. This morning she said did you do that yesterday and I said yes I did. After I fell off my mummy said that I could have some sweets but she said have something that costs 3d but I could not and I had to have some thing 6d. 

Writing Process Blog Tour

One of my favourite West-based poets and all-round staunch chap, David Clarke, has asked me to take part in a ‘blogging tour’.   Being ultra keen on jaunting, I was a little disappointed to discover that it doesn’t involve maps, B-roads or out-of-the-way pubs – rather, it’s a chain of blog posts by poets on a series of shared questions about their writing.  Never mind, it’s pouring outside so maybe it’s as well.

Here's a  link to David's blog, A Thing For Poetry, where he answers the same questions.  My own responses are below.

1) What am I working on?
My most important project at present is finalising the manuscript of my next collection, Map Reading For Beginners.  It’s due at my publishers, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, by June, and will hopefully be launched around the time of the Bristol Poetry Festival in the autumn.  I put together a draft some months ago and now I’m waiting for it to settle before I turn a final, highly critical eye on it.  I expect maybe half a dozen to a dozen poems to fall at the final hurdle in favour of other, newer ones.  This is no time for sentiment!  

In the meantime, I’m finishing a trio of poems about Somerset, one set in the present, one during the tidal surge/tsunami of 1607, and one c500AD.  

As for the longer term, I can feel my mind turning towards another possible collection, this time of marriage poems.  Writing in a sustained and clear-eyed way about that would require much girding of lions and other big cats, however.  


2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Every poet has their preferred subjects and idiosyncratic approaches to writing.  I tend to be inspired by place – hence the above-mentioned propensity to jaunt – and a particular landscape is often the starting point for a poem, even though the finished piece might not reflect this.  It’s very hard to be subjective about what you write, however. I like to think I have my own distinct voice, but ultimately that's for others to decide.  All I'm doing is responding to an impulse.  


3) Why do I write what I do?
On the whole I prefer to write what comes, which is why I find workshops with set exercises and a limited time to respond very challenging.  Even though it can be tortuous, I'd rather sit around in the rain, waiting to see what takes the bait - although during times of drought, a prompt can be a life-saver.  


4) How does your writing process work?
It depends on whether I’m writing poetry or prose.  With my novel, Dart, the story came from my research, then, as the characters established themselves in my head, they took over and dictated the action.  

Poems are different – more like threads blowing on the breeze.  When I see one, I try to catch hold of it and follow it to the other end.  Sometimes this takes a week or two; sometimes the process lasts months or years.  Once or twice I’ve pulled a poem out of the air, fully-formed, but this is very rare for me.  

I now have to find three other writers to answer the same questions.  I'll post the links to their blogs as they agree to do it - although if anyone reading this wants to join in, just post a link to your blog in the comments below. 

Link to Rachael Clyne's blog here.  

Link to Alison Lock's blog here. 

Writing Poetry as an Extreme Sport

It’s clear that for performance poets, poetry is something of an extreme sport.  I am far more of a page poet although I do enjoy reading my work in public and one day I might even pluck up the courage to perform it a little.  But it’s writing the stuff that thrills and exhilarates me.

By the time I start a poem, the seed of it has usually – though not always – been dormant in my head for some time.  Then, as I feel my way towards it, I fall in love – with its subject, its sound, the look of it on the page, the adrenalin rush of hunting down the right word and trapping it, only to have a tiny doubt – ‘surely there must be something a bit more perfect? Yes, here it is, look!’ – until it’s done.  Obviously interspersed with all that passion are stretches of doubt and discouragement  of the ‘God, this is total crap’ variety, but unless I put it to one side in despair, nine times out of ten I end up with my mouth full of something that pleases me.
  

Then obviously I start something else, look back after a week or so and realise how buck-toothed and bespectacled my previous amour was.  So I ignore it for months, then finally go back to it for more tweaking, its weaknesses having become obvious in our estrangement.

There’s a picture of Lizzie Siddal, painted by her husband and dark star, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, called ‘Beata Beatrix’.  It depicts Beatrice Portinari from Dante Aligheri’s poem ‘La Vita Nuova’ at the moment of her death.  I’m not a big fan of Rossetti or his art.  Although he was supremely talented, much of his later work, particularly of Jane Morris, is too decadent for my sensibilities.  And he treated both Lizzie and William Morris, whom I venerate, shamefully.   But this canvas is sumptuous in colour and composition.  With her face upturned, her eyes shut and her hands held out to receive the poppy which Death’s messenger, a red dove, is about to put in them, Beatrix is anticipating – even welcoming  - her death.  The biographer Jan Marsh has identified Lizzie’s posture as being reminiscent of someone in the throes of drug-induced euphoria, and poor Lizzie being addicted to laudanum, this is entirely plausible.

I mention this partly to have a beautiful picture to post with this blog, but mainly because that is how I feel about writing poetry.  It’s a rush, an addiction, a passion and a thrill.  I hope it never gives up on me. 

Acts of Communion

My first collection of poetry, which is being published in early 2011 by Indigo Dreams, is called ‘Communion’. The title comes from a poem of the same name, which I wrote after visiting St Winifred’s Church in Branscombe, East Devon. But it’s neither a theological discourse nor a homily. Communion is a poem about the pleasures of the flesh.

Just opposite the doorway of St Winifred's, towards the rear of the nave, are the remains of a 15th century mural, believed to have depicted the Seven Deadly Sins, although only Lust has survived the depredations of Henry VIII, Oliver Cromwell and those restoration-crazed Victorians. The sinning couple are shown in each other’s arms, while a skeletal Devil standing to one side is running them through with a lance. Not that this seems to bother the lovers at all. Both are intent upon the other.

It was this defiant pleasure, this communion, that I wanted to celebrate. I imagined them partaking of each other in other churches I’d visited, from Wells Cathedral choir with its sumptuous embroideries and the worn stone steps of its Chapter House, to St Enodoc’s, a tiny Chapel of Ease in Trebetherick, Cornwall, which, over the course of three centuries, filled completely with sand and was known locally as Sinkininny Church. Its graveyard is now the last resting place of Sir John Betjeman.

Apparently, churches were major pulling-places in the past, and when I saw the high-walled Georgian box pews in Puxton Church in Somerset, I could easily picture the illicit fumblings that might have gone on there, out of sight of the rector and the rest of the congregation. I’m a coward, though, so in my poem the couple’s final act of communion takes place ‘beneath the fan-vaulting of trees’ (although you could argue that the cathedrals that are our woods and forests are the most sacred places of all).

The word 'communion' has a more general meaning, however: namely, a coming together to share what we have with others. To me, a lover of the written word, it encapsulates the ability of poetry to leap the chasms between us, to let us know we’re not alone. That's the spark of recognition I would love to strike in people when they read my poems. That's why I share what I write.

It’s these layers of meaning that prompted me to call my collection 'Communion': the sacred and the profane, all mingled together and holy as hell.