Martin Figura: Whistle

There seem to be lots of poetry events on in Bristol and the surrounding area at present, and last night it was off to the Rondo theatre in Bath to see Martin Figura perform his show, Whistle.

Whistle is a collection of poems principally about Martin's childhood and the event which shaped the rest of his life for ever, the murder of his mother by his father when he was 9 years old.  If that sounds very challenging, well, it is, and while reading the sequence last week, I actually gasped, not so much at the murder (horrible as it is, you know as soon as you peruse the back cover that's what you're going to be reading about) but at the behaviour of his murdered mother's sister and her husband, who abandon their bereaved nieces and nephew and emigrate to Canada without explanation or farewell.

You might think this would make for a grim evening, but not a bit of it.  Accompanying the reading is a series of images and photographs which evoke British childhood in the 60s as well as providing a more personal context for some of the poems.  In addition, Martin links each poem with narratives that are warm and often amusing. I fell in love with Mrs Piggott, the matriarch next door who steps into the breach when the siblings find themselves dumped in children's homes and who apparently used to watch telly with a hen on her lap.

If you are in Liverpool on 29th March, Canterbury on 25th April or Exeter on 14th July, go and see the show.  If you think you don't like poetry, make doubly sure you go because odds are, you'll change your mind.

Jean Binta Breeze: Passion and Mischief

I had a lovely and memorable experience at the Central Library in Bristol last Friday night, when I heard/saw world-renowned dub poet Jean Binta Breeze read some of her poetry in support of the programme of activities for International Women's Day.

Ah, what passion and mischief!  If you missed it - and I suppose the odds are you did - here's a video of her reading a couple of years ago and starting, as she did on Friday, with 'Simple Things'.

The Black Death being a topical subject ...

Dead monarchs buried under car parks? Pshaw! This is the all-conquering Black Death, baby ... 

'Yet still the wind it blows, and it blows wisht.

It’s an unket wind that rolls and bowls

along the lonely drovers’ trails

in sunlight and in starlight

when ghostly owls make  moan.

And with it comes a frittening

like naught you’ve ever known.

Forget your bullbeggars, dragons and bogies,

Jack o’ Lanterns that dance over mires

those drear, drowned souls rising up from their depths

with slimy hands that beckon and clutch …

Forget the whispering spirits of All-Hallow-E’en,

your pixies and ogres and hags

Old Nick and his hell hounds that howl in the blackness

their eyes all a-flame …

They’ve long since been sung of in stories

and vanquished by name.

For now absence begets a presence

older than words, colder than ice at the heart of the fire.

A darksome sending – nameless, formless dread –

a shapeshifter that drifts and slides

beside its helpless prey

a displacement of air, a quickening, thickening

clotting and curdling into a shade

that isn’t fog or a cloud for it’s real, it’s alive

though it reeks of death and decay.

And soon you’ll reacquaint yourself

with one you’ve glimpsed before –

Bloodless and Boneless behind the door

but now it’s breathing through your keyhole

forcing fingers through

the cracks and chinks and squints.

And though it utters not a sound

you understand what’s brought it here

and its intention as it reaches through              

is boulder-cold and clear - 

             It’s come for you ... '

Cover Story

I intended to post these pictures a couple at a time in a tantalising sort of way, but it's so interesting tracing their development by seeing them all together that I've changed my mind.  This is a record of how the cover for my putative second poetry collection, provisionally titled Map Reading For Beginners, came into being, courtesy of the talent of Dru Marland.  

Look at the configuration of wild garlic flowers ...

The lettering isn't definite yet; the poems aren't definite yet; even publication isn't definite yet, but one thing's sure, there's a lot to live up to ... 

Sing-A-Song-A-Black-Death

One of my day-jobs is working in a school for deaf children and last week, to mark World Book Day, I went in to talk to the younger pupils about being a writer.  To make it a bit more interesting, I took my illustrator, Dru Marland, along with me, and Reg Meuross came too to sing and play his guitar. And if that sounds like a strange thing to do in a school of severely and profoundly deaf children, well, yes, it is.

But it seemed to work pretty well, thanks to the efforts of staff and children and especially our in-house interpreter, Helen.  In fact, it was a wonderful collaborative effort.  

First I spoke about the Black Death, the process of writing my book (one day a week for seven years!), and the story of how I became a writer in the first place (basically because I couldn't not be a writer), while Helen interpreted into British Sign Language for me.  

Then Dru showed the children her amazing pictures.  She explained how she put the cover components together on her computer and how she used Google Earth to draw the map.  She also showed them my dog Ted's Christmas card for next year while I burst with pride.









Then it was Reg's turn to sing his song The Boundary  Stone, which is about two lovers separated by the quarantine at the time of the outbreak of plague in Eyam in 1665.  Helen signed the lyrics and the children joined in the choruses.  

After that, some of the Year 5 and 6 children showed a PowerPoint presentation about Dick Turpin, after which Reg sang his song Lizzie Loved A Highway Man, the true story about Dick who was far from the folk hero he is made out to be.  

And then we swept up all the crow and skull confetti and crow feathers, put out the tables for school dinners, and Reg, Dru and I went down the pub.

Cover for my next poetry collection ...

... with the provisional title of Map Reading for Beginners.  

Artwork by Dru Marland. Watch as it grows ... 

Pootling at Portus Abonae

Have been hellish busy lately - I think I've definitely bwirtten offh mure thn I cn cherw. So although I've been out and about a lot, it's been more about doing stuff than assimilation.  And I need a bit of contemplation every now and then.

No time for jaunting again this weekend, but I did manage to fit in a bit of pootle with John Terry, Dru Marland and Ted, which is the next best thing.  And the place we pootled at was Sea Mills Dock, which the Romans knew as Portus Abonae, and the banks of the River Avon, after the gorge but before it meets the great Severn at Avonmouth. 

Low tide but no sun, which was a shame because when there is, it turns the mud gold and the whole scene is Klimtian, but there was a pleasing bleakness which is the sort of view that most accommodates the tired eye, I feel.  Well, mine, anyhow.  

To the right, then, is the Avon, tidal and no longer the bustling channel it was when the city of Bristol was the main port, not Avonmouth.  To the left the always very busy Portway, leading from the city centre out to the M5.  

Which means that this walk is far less peaceful than it looks, except that much like at Burwalls Cave, the white noise of the road is easily converted into the sound of the mighty ice age torrent that once cut the Gorge.  The land hasn't forgotten even if we have.

The dock has silted up a lot since its hey-day, so every now and then you get strangely positioned reminders of its previous life in unexpected places.  

One of the joys of jaunting with Dru is that you get to experience more wildlife than you would have otherwise, partly because of her attuned eye and partly because she can identify any bird who utters as much as a squeak.

So I can tell you that our journey was accompanied by the watery call of the sandpiper, and through her binoculars I saw a wondrously sinister heron on a bank in the river, which my feeble eyes had no chance of spotting unaided.  

 I don't need any help with enjoying the colours of a dull March morning, though. So muted, so beautiful.