Richard III: Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory

Photo by Dominic Maxwell

Even though we made our traditionally early arrival at the Tobacco Factory to see Richard III, we were astonished to find the queue to get into the theatre winding right out of the bar and down the stairs to the box office, with the result that instead of getting a seat at the front with an almost-part-of-the-cast view, my son and I found ourselves in the back row, craning to see around one of the pillars. 

‘Just because they found him under a car park!’ another regular said to me, wearily.

And when he comes onto the stage to deliver his opening soliloquy, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, (played by John Mackay) does indeed resemble a skeleton.  Tall and bony, with cropped white hair and a white face blackened about the eyes, he starts the play as he ends it – no flawed, flesh-and-blood hero brought down by overweening ambition, but the personification of depravity.   Mackay’s Richard is the archetypal psychopath who, devoid of empathy and conscience, murders as much to divert himself from what he sees as the pointlessness of existence as to achieve the power he craves, and often, horrifyingly, the audience finds itself laughing along with him. 

In a play that is dominated by its villain, the rest of the cast put in sterling performances.  I was especially moved by Nicki Goldie’s portrayal of the Duchess of York, the only character who truly knows Richard for what he is, having given birth to him.  But it is Richard who charms, entertains, disgusts and mesmerises, often all at the same time, right up to the end when he lies dead on Bosworth Field, his long limbs curled up in a way that is fittingly reminiscent of a dead spider.  

On the long trek back to the car, I found myself wondering whether Richard III might have availed himself of the nearby Aldi car park, were he still living, or would he have feared returning to find that his horse - assuming one had been procured for him - hobbled? I doubt we shall ever know the truth.  

Stones and Snowdrops

What a weekend of poetry I have had!  In addition to my monthly Poetic Licence workshop on Sunday, Friday was the annual Voices In The City Day at Bath Central Library, part of Bath Festival of Literature and always a highly enjoyable occasion.  Then, on Saturday I went to Avebury with Hazel Hammond to take part in a workshop run by poets Jo Bell (a former archaeologist) and Martin Malone.  

We arrived in Avebury with snow falling, which was ironic given that the original workshop focusing on the stones had to be postponed in January because of feet of the stuff lying on the ground.  This time it was as fine as grains of salt, however, and didn't pitch. The wind still had a set of sharp teeth, however. 

First off was a tour of the site.  Avebury is a strange place. Unlike Stonehenge, where the stones stand in magnificent isolation, the village has encroached on the henge and despite the original archaeologist, Alexander Keiller, and the National Trust taking it upon themselves to demolish part of village, the better to show off the stones, there's still an odd sense of the unfathomable hugger-mugger with bricked and tiled domesticity.  I love the majesty of Stonehenge, but also adore the very clear impression of historical layers you get at Avebury.  

And of course you can still get close enough to read the lichen maps covering the sarsen stone.

After a while we began to turn to stone, so we adjourned to the cosy National Trust study centre for tea, chocolate biscuits and some stimulating writing exercises about our own personal landscapes.  

After lunch in the cafe, Hazel and I visited the museums, Avebury Manor and the Church of St James.  The rooms of the Manor were disappointing, having been done up like sets from different eras for a BBC television programme with Penelope Keith in it.  I suppose that every National Trust interior, with the exception of somewhere like Mr Straw's House which has retained all of its chattels, is to a certain extent fake, but this was flimsy and hollow fakery.  There was no sense at all of its history, no trace of who once lived there.  Boo!  Though at least there are none of those teasels and kids can jump on the beds.

The Church of St James is built very close to the stones, reputedly to counteract their supposed malevolence.  (I think we're straying into Marianne Dreams territory here).  For me, the its jewel was the Norman tub font, designed for total immersion and  carved with a bishop carrying a crozier and two serpents. 

Outside, the sun had come out and there were nebulae on the gravestones,

not to mention to mention snowdrops and sunshine. Time to stop hibernating. 

Histories and Our Stories at the Berkeley Square Hotel

If you missed the recent launch of my novel, Dart, at Halo Cafe Bar, Bristol, there will a sort of mini reprise at the The Berkeley Square Hotel from 8.30pm on Thursday 28th March, when talented Somerset singer-songwriter Reg Meuross and I will be taking a slantwise look at how history becomes folk tale and song.  (Don't worry, it's Reg doing the singing, not me - I shall restrict myself to reading from Dart and maybe a poem or two.)  So expect pus, buboes, quarantined lovers, decidedly anti-heroic highwaymen, mist-wreathed murders, frittenings and summats, not to mention the truly terrifying Bloodless and Boneless Behind The Door ...  

A man suffering from buboes and splotches, by Matthias Grunewald

(detail from the reverse of the Isenheim altarpiece, 1506-1515)

Also on the bill, Stroud storyteller Kevan Manwaring, Stephen W Lake and Richard Devereaux, so don't miss it!  

Going Off Piste in Wiltshire

And so to High Wycombe where Daughter no 2 was moving across town.  I suppose the name of the place should have been an advance warning, but my poor arthritickal knees did find climbing flights and flights of stairs of houses built into steep hillsides whilst ferrying various boxes of possessions to and fro quite exacting.  I think the new abode will be OK, though, as while the man from letting agency was going around with the inventory, I watched a red kite circling over the houses opposite.  Has to be a good omen.  Unless you are a vole or something.

Driving off piste down country lanes in the early hours of this morning - two sections of the M4 westbound were closed completely for roadworks and no one had bothered with diversion signs, of course - I was struck by the fact that although I had no real idea where I was, even in the dark there were indications.  Admittedly the banks of snowdrops could have been anywhere, but red brick and thatch (so different from Devon's cob) spoke loudly of rural Wiltshire, and when I saw how much gleamier the soil of the rougher tracks were, I recalled the etcher Robin Tanner's love of the old chalk roads of that county.  Isn't it wonderful how places wear their vernacularity even in darkness.  And if that word doesn't exist, it should do.  

Anyhow, it reminded me of the poem 'Earthed' by U A Fanthorpe, which she describes as a love poem to the various places she'd lived in England.   I've blogged about before but I love it so here it is again.  

I Should Rococo

If you are in Bristol during March and a classical music fan, do pop into St George's Church on Great George Street as it will be hosting the first Bristol Baroque Festival in association with BBC Radio 3.  Its publicity claims it will 'unwrap an abundance of great music and artistry that flourished during the Baroque era, bringing it into the light of the modern day in a way that underscores its zest and glorious originality', with a particular focus being 'the musical genius of J S Bach'.  

Now, if you know me, you will likely be aware that I have an aversion to all things overly curly, be it art, sculpture, architecture, interior design, costume or music - in fact, anything apart from hair. I don't even - whisper it - like Bach much. So why am I bleating on about this festival?  Well ...

... over the last seven or eight months the monthly Poetry Can workshop I attend has focused on Baroque poetry, and we have been writing poems in the style of certain of its practitioners and/or modern takes on the form.  This isn't quite as horrific as it sounds. For one thing, the major poets regarded as writing in a Baroque style - John Donne, Andrew Marvell, George Herbert, Henry Vaughan et al - coincide for the most part with the first two phases of the period, rather than the excesses of the hateful Late Baroque period, also known as ... shudder ... Rococo, and I am mightily fond of some of their works.  For another, I now have a better appreciation of the techniques they employed to make their poetry so distinctive from what preceded it - wit, metaphysical conceits such as far-fetched similes and metaphors, irony, paradox, intellectual rigour, etc.  

The exciting thing about all of this is that thirteen poems are going to be displayed on big boards in St George's cafe bar for the duration of the festival, including one of mine about a street-sweeper, entitled 'The Dream-Catcher'.  So if you want to be one of the approximately 3,000 people who are expected to pass that way and see them, make sure you drop in before the end of March.  Added artistic value for money, see?  And a distraction from all that twiddly stuff.  

And now I am going to post a portrait of the extremely hot John Donne. Because I can.

  

A Visit to M Shed

I visited M Shed today with my cousins, Joy who lives in Thornbury and Sandra who flew over the week before last from New Jersey on a blizzard-defying visit prompted by the launch of my book, Dart.  Neither had been to this comparatively new museum before, so it was quite high up their List of Places to Visit.

I like the upstairs part of the museum better than the ground floor, as it contains more about the lives of people living in this city.  I have to say that as a novelist engaged in research, I need more detail than any museum could hope to include amongst their displays, but as a poet, there are plenty of telling details at M Shed that spark the imagination. For instance, I'd forgotten that we used to call the bits of surplus cooked batter which we often had scrumps; a story about Paper Sal, a newspaper vendor in the late 1800s and early 1900s, reminded me.  Here she is.  

Next we moved on to the exhibitions.  There was one about the chocolate-making industry in Bristol, which made me feel very nostalgic (we used to get Frys misshapes very cheaply when I was a child, from someone my father knew) and one entitled Revealing Stories, about the experiences of lesbian, gay, bi and trans people living in Bristol.  This second exhibition is long overdue and was by far the most interesting of the day's displays.  It was good to see my friend Dru Marland's story included, as well as mention of two of my colleagues who are involved in Deafab, and two of my favourite local poets, U A Fanthorpe and her partner, Dr Rosie Bailey.  There were also three pencil portraits by Malcolm Ashman of Bath Artists' Studio which made my heart jump a bit, not least because I met him on several occasions last year, when he drew a portrait of me as part of the Faces {Bath} collaboration with Bath Poetry Cafe.  

In the M Shed shop I was pleased to see a poem on sale there by local poet, Miles Chambers. 

And there was a moment of delight when we scanned a school photograph from the 1940s and my cousins picked out their mother, my Auntie Mavis, who died of breast cancer in 1979 when she was 48 and they were 19 and 17 years old, and who is much missed more than thirty years later.  It was so good to see that she is still part of our city's story.    

Darts of Love

Photo by Nicola Stantiford

The launch of 'Dart' on Friday night at the Halo Cafe Bar in Bristol went pretty well: apart from a rather wobbly lectern, there were no hitches, the audience was attentive and appreciative, and I sold enough copies of the tome to off-set costs, which, of course, is what a launch is all about.  

Or is it?  I'll remember the evening for other, more special reasons.

First, the sight of two of my colleagues from the school for deaf children where I work signing my words, and Reg Meuross's songs, so that a third, who is deaf, could be part of the evening.    To see 'Dart''s first translation into a different language in process was beautiful, moving and exciting.  I must have the best colleagues in the western hemisphere.

Hearing the voices of my characters, which for years resounded only in my  head, somehow cross the 665 years between them and me was just brilliant.  And that some of them were read by my son, Samuel, who has autism and learning difficulties but who performed with confidence and aplomb, was miraculous. 

The last hour before the launch started, when the room filled up with people I love from all eras and areas of my life, was so warm and sustaining that I'll keep the memory in my pocket and take it whenever I need it.  

Photo by Maxine Fone

I'd like to say a few thank yous:

to my troupe of readers, Pameli Benham, Ruth Boston, Maxine Fone, Samuel Grashoff and John Terry (who has also taken my lectern home to fix); 

to my mediaeval troubadour, Reg Meuross, whose songs dovetailed so well with the themes of the night (except, maybe, for 'It's Me or Elvis' although, as Reg pointed out, the King of Rock and Roll is dead,  much like most victims of the plague); 

to Hazel Hammond for being a warm and capable MC and for bringing three turnips along to add to my collection of root vegetable lanterns gurning from the sides of the room;  

to Andi Langford-Woods for the loan of her PA and her reassuring expertise; 

to Jenny, my daughter, who filmed it;

to the wonderful writer for young adults, Julie Hearn, for providing me with a quote for the back cover, becoming a dear friend and fellow-jaunter, and travelling down from Abingdon to be there on the night;

to my cousin Sandra who made a blizzard-defying flight across the Atlantic from New Jersey;

to my friend, Jill, for providing late night curry, champagne and company,

and to everyone else who attended.  You have all made my inner seven year old, who always wanted to be a writer but whom I ignored for far too long, very happy indeed.   

Illustration by Dru Marland