Writing Heaven

We writers are, it's well documented, an anti-social bunch. Now and again we can be tempted into gatherings, fuelled by drink, where we'll make animated conversation about books which should have been published and competitions we might have won. But our natural habitat is solitude - lots of time, lots of paper, and words buzzing round in our heads. Last week Linda was on a residential singing course, taking the car with her, leaving me marooned in Much Wenlock with an idea for a play. That meant I could extend the dining room table, spread out my notes, and leave them there in state for the rest of the week.  I know there are fancy computer programmes which will do all that for you, but for me nothing beats the beauty of little piles of scribbled notes, marshalled by bright orange post-its. Every morning I woke up to the sound of voices, my imaginary characters getting more voluble by the day. Sheer bliss.  

The Unravelling

"Da'ash (ISIS) is the hideous product of a sacralised determinism born out of secular failure."

When you meet that in the preface of a book, you know you're in the hands of an intellectual. But Emma Sky is a very special kind of intellectual. A Brit civil servant, with a passion for the Middle East, she somehow ends up as the closest aide to the General Odierno, who's leading US troops in Iraq.. He's 6' 5" and she's 5' 4", so the photographs make it look even stranger, but it's actually a beautiful story of friendship, as well as a tough, sad account  of "high hopes and missed opportunities." If you wondered how we got from there to here, and got a bit confused about the various factions involved, this is the book to read. It's not short or snappy, but all the better for that.  It's detailed, intelligent and heartfelt - unforgettable.   

Blair cartoon

There's a brilliant cartoon in today's Guardian (not Steve Bell, for once) showing Tony Blair at his desk, scripting the speech warning Labour not to choose Corbyn as their leader. a message comes through from the Chilcott enquiry, but Blair waves it away "Tell him I'm busy1" Really neat combination of two current news stories, but it also encapsulates Blair's self-importance, that old confidence that he's the right man to decide what the priorities should be. Which is what got us into Iraq in the first place.  

Radio Ballads

Way back in March, I went to hear Peggy Seeger at the Flatpack Festival, talking about the radio ballads. She was wonderful, and emphatic (Peggy is very formidable when she's emphatic) that the way to listen to them was in order. Being a retired person with leisure I went home, ordered the full set, read the book about making them, and then listened to all eight CDs, in order.

She's right. It's a fascinating development, watching these three very different people (Charles Parker, Ewan Maccoll and Seeger herself) develop as individuals and as a team, finding out how they can combine actuality (tape recorded interviews with people, not actors speaking their lines - revolutionary at the time) with folksong and music ( a wide range of instruments, more jazz then folk). Sometimes, as with the ones on teenagers and polio, the actuality is brilliant and the songs don't add much; sometimes - herrign fishing,or travellers - the subject matter produces brilliant songs that sound as if they've been around for ever.

And one of the great themes through the development is Seeger herself, starting as the girl who does the orchestration, but ten getting involved in the interviewing, and the actual scripting of the programmes. I'm so glad I did this. Strongly recommended.    

Sarah Hall

There's nothing quite like the buzz of discovering a new writer. It was nearly three months ago that I read a review of The Wolf Border. I thought "this looks interesting" and ordered it from Much Wenlock library - which is brilliant. As was the book. So I thought I'd look up her back catalogue, and ordered two more. When I went to pick them up, less than a week later, they said "I think there's another one on the shelves." From the photos on the back I'd say she was a bright sixth-former - but then, I am an old retired teacher. she can do anything. Winter on the fells, growing up in a seaside town, working in Coney Island. Single women thinking about having a baby, families, sex, tattooing - you name it. totally versatile, intelligent and rivetting to read. Sadly, I've now read everything she'd done. so don't just sit there, Sarah. Get on and write another one.  

Cameron’s warm words

We’re going to have to live with it. Five more years of Tory rule. It starts, promisingly enough, with warm words from David Cameron. “Reclaim the tradition of one nation Toryism, govern with respect.” Absolutely right. That’s what’s needed, that’s what we want to hear. But five years ago, we wanted to hear that there would be no further top-down reorganisation of the NHS. so that’s what he told us. Remember this? “The test of a good society is how you look after the elderly, the frail, the vulnerable, the poorest…” Cameron again, five years ago, just before the most savage onslaught on the powerless that we’ve ever seen. The snag with Cameron is not what he says. It’s that what he says bears no relation to what he does. On past evidence, you can’t believe a single word. If you want more detail on my post-election thoughts, have a look at The Morning After.

Making the Festival Work

Linda and Dave on one more little chore for WPF

It’s a strange fact about poetry festivals that the nearer you get to the centre of power the less poetry you hear. I have good friends working as dogsbody stewards at readings, getting for free an amazing taste of really good stuff. But here I am at Ground Control, the centre of this poetic universe, despatching runners, answering radios, responding to crises, and not hearing a word of the poems that it’s all about. Ah well. The real grind this year’s been done by Lisa and Jade, who are so overworked they’ve commandeered support from Lisa’s partner Dave and Jade’s mum Linda, also helping out at Ground Control. Talking to them, my five hour stint seems a drop in the ocean. They’ve had months of non-stop work, just to get ready for these two and a bit days of frantic activity. But it’s been brilliant, and even the weather goods have seen fit to defy the forecast. A reward for hours of dedicated work.

Slam Champion

I knew this year’s Wenlock Poetry Festival was going to be a bit special ever since the e-mail asking me if I fancied opening for Michael Rosen. But it just gets better. Because I wanted to publicise my new book Writing for Blockheads, I’d entered the poetry slam (despite saying in said book that I wouldn’t be doing any more slams). Also, I have a recent poem about Hank and Lucinda Williams which I wanted to perform, and that was the ideal setting. I decided to do it first, so that it got its airing even if i was knocked out in the first round. I wasn’t knocked out. There were only eight of us, so we each got two goes (unbelievably civilised for a slam, which are usually ruthless eliminators, often of serious talent). And then I was in the final – with two other guys aged around 60 – and then I’d won. Utterly unexpected, so all the more fun for that. And tomorrow, there’s Michael Rosen and me, and 200 of his fans.

Spinning for a vote

A sad little story tucked away in today’s Observer. Lord Renfrew, a Lib Dem peer, is seething that the government have suppressed and delayed the publication of a report about the EU. It’s packed with evidence provided from British firms about the economic benefits of the UK’s membership of the EU. That’s not at all what the Government wish to see debated in Parliament, or reported in any detail. We shouldn’t be surprised that this goes on, but one of the few benefits of coalition is that now and again a lib Dem is so outraged by what’s happening, that we get to know the truth.

If you’re greedy for more about the lies people will tell to get elected, there’s a poem on my website called Manifesto. You won’t believe it, but every word is true – look up the speech on Google.

Campaign in Poetry

That’s the title of an Emma Press anthology, which arrived on my doormat this morning. I’ve been waiting for this since December, when a friend passed on to me the enticing blurb – “Emma Press goes political”. They were planning two volumes, one on the history of voting, one on the current campaign. The plan was to refute Jeremy Paxman’s sense that contemporary poetry didn’t really engage with the real world.

I doubt he’ll change his mind because of this. It’s one thin volume (£7.50 for thirty pages of poems), And it only mentions three politicians – Alex Salmond, Margaret Thatcher and Barack Obama. Political parties? Oh, yes, the SNP get a mention, but nobody else. When it actually comes to the crunch, of engaging with the business of power in action, most poets don’t want to know.

Nation-building

That’s the title of a long poem, which didn’t exist before this weekend, and is now a chunky first draft of 144 lines, in octosyllabic rhymed couplets. Worse still, it’s about the way in which the West has encouraged the rise of Islamic state, and it works its way through the recent campaigns in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya and Syria. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but for me it’s the glory of retirement – if I want to devote a whole weekend to an ambitious intellectual project that I’ve set myself, then I can do that. It’s been simmering a while, encouraged by reading Patrick Cockburn’s book, and a Guardian interview with Jon Snow, but this weekend was the moment when it seemed right to sit down and scribble flat out. I’ve had a ball.

Standing for a Seat

For over six months now, I’ve been working with a couple of friends on an election show – two poets and a singer-songwriter, putting together 45 minutes of entertainment about the past, present and possible future of our democracy. Between us, we cover a variety of moods – satirical, whimsical, reflective and sombre. We look at the history of voting, take in Emmeline Pankhurst, Clem Attlee and Tony Blair, as well as Russell Brand and Al Murray. And yes, there’s stuff on Cameron and Miliband, on the Lib Dems, UKIP and the Greens. a lot of it’s light, but it’s not cheap or stupid, and we’ve worked really hard to put it together. We have scripted links and intros, no faffing around wondering what comes next, or that’s the right way to introduce this song…and as we do it, the hours of discussion and rehearsal are definitely worth it, and the packed audience at Eat Up seem to enjoy what they’ve heard. What’s that? Oh yes, you can still catch this show, but not for long. April 17 at Priory Hall Much Wenlock, and May 1 at Victoria Hall, Broseley. 7.30 for both, admission £2.00 – including refreshments.

Great launch, shame about the books

One of the weirder nights of my life. For years I’ve sung the joys of self-publishing, the excitement of sending off files and getting bound copies back within weeks. Today I came unstuck. I used a firm I’ve used three times before. I sent them the files on February 11. they kept reassuring me that they’d keep to my deadline. but they insisted on pdf files and then two weeks later asked for word files. They ignored requests I’d made, and failed to ring me when I’d warned them my e-mail was dodgy. They promised they’d send stuff and then found iou it hadn’t gone. So I’m left at Wenlock Books, with a pleasant and friendly audience listening to me reading extracts from my valuable proof copy – which at present is the only copy in the world. As it happens, it went fine. Before the mess over the copies, I’d thought that Writing for Blockheads was a good idea and would reach an audience, and this evening seems to confirm that view. all we need is a few copies to test it out.

Busy, busy, busy…

Another of those rare days where I think I’m living the rock star life. Set the alarm to drive to Radio Shropshire, where winning second prize in the Guernsey Poetry comp allows me a ten minute slot in which I can read the poem, and plug my book launch (March 27), the election show (April 14) and reading with Michael Rosen at the Wenlock poetry festival. Can’t be bad.

And that’s before 9.00 am. Then it’s off to Birmingham for a fuill day at the Flatpack Festival. A weird film about slime mould, featuring all sorts of strange intellectuals (artists, biologists, computer nerds), and a screening of Battleship Potemkin at Birmingham Cathedral with stunning live piano accompaniment. But sandwiched in between those is a gorgeous taste of luxury – Lubitsch’s stunning comedy Trouble in Paradise (why isn’t this better known?), followed by a classy two-course meal at the Opus restaurant. This is the life.

Big in Guernsey

They used to have this phrase about obscure rock bands, that they were “big in Japan.” As of today, I’m big in Guernsey. They run this international poetry competition, Poems on the Move, where they post short poems inside buses, and at the airport. In 2010 I came third. Last year, second. and this year – second again. It’s an amazingly consistent run, and the judges were different every time. All three winning poems were sonnets, though they didn’t have to be (just under 20 lines, later restricted to 14). Even better, with the exception of the first, the successful poems were written in Guernsey, about Guernsey, and then submitted later. The last two times we spent the prize money (and more) on going to the island, to enjoy it, the sunshine and the literary festival. I’m thinking very hard about going back again…

Perfect Present

Very hard to get presents right, but when you do, it shows. Today’s my 70th birthday, and my son just happens to have hit the spot. For years I’ve been a Joe Sacco fan. His Palestine is a mix of personal story and recent history, which tells you everything you need to know about the Occupied Territories without getting preachy of solemn. I was used to the innocent drawing style, the apparently simple language in which Sacco shows himself trying to understand what’s going on. But Great War is something else. It’s a book without a back, that opens out like a concertina, a kind of modern Bayeux Tapestry which tells the story of the first day of the Somme in hugely detailed “Where’s Willy?”-type drawings, and not a word in sight. Well, there is an accompanying booklet, and a helpful commentary, and some useful information and statistics, but the main drawings still work on their own, a gradually evolving mass of love and care and detail. No, its no use. This can’t do it justice. But I’m so glad I’ve got it.

Peter Carey magic

There’s nothing quite like a new book from a favourite novelist. Ever since Illywacker and Oscar and Lucinda (yeah, Ok, that was 25 years ago) I’ve been a Peter Carey fan, although he hasn’t always lived up to that stunnning early promise. But Amnesia, his latest, comes pretty close. It’s got an intricate, fascinating story, cleverly told. It’s got a serious interest in Australian politics, which treats rebels and eccentrics as being worthy of serious attention. But best of all, it’s got verbal fireworks in the actual writing, stunning little bits of excitement that you can’t ignore. This is the start of a description of a school that the heroine attends:

“Bell Street High School was rotting, neglected, faction-ridden, falling apart. In heavy rain the power points exploded, sending extraordinary blue sheets of Pentecostal fire dancing above the pupils’ heads….” Don’t you feel like reading on?

Friends Reunited

The US revelations about their involvement in torture is a great opportunity for those of us in the UK, including Amnesty members like me, to nudge David Cameron’s memory. It’s not widely remembered that way back in 2009 Cameron was all for transparency, controlling surveillance, and finding out once and for all whether any UK agents had been involved in torture. Somewhere along the line, that’s slipped his mind. Our Amnesty group staged an action, drew up and petition and got it signed, and sent it off. not much response. Now, though, it seems worth trying again. So I write a letter to The Guardian which, for once, gets printed. and there, on the letters page, on the same topic, pushing a very similar line, is a friend from university I haven’t seen for forty years.

Yentob wall to wall

A little quiz for telly-watchers. Who’d be the best person to interview (a) the German artist Anselm Kiefer? (b) the English film director Mike Leigh? (c) the Irish writer Colm Toibin? The answer, apparently, is Alan Yentob. Yes, that’s Alan Yentob, every time. That’s who we get on our screens, every time we want to sample any culture. (These three examples are all from the last three weeks) Maybe there are people out there who are crazy about him, but for those of us who aren’t it’s a bit mystifying. and when we see the heavy-handed jokes – Yentob cycling around Kiefer’s yard, Yentob knocking on Mike Leigh’s door and being told to go away – it’s very hard to resist the suspicion that the person who decides we need to keep seeing Yentob all the time is…Yentob himself. Please tell me it’s not true.

Larkin’s Letters

Now and again you get a happy accident. I had one three weeks ago, browsing in Telford Library, when I saw a copy of Letters to Monica, Larkin’s correspondance with Monica Jones. I’d read a biography, and knew a lot of the poems, but I thought I’d give this a try. It’s been fascinating. He’s a curmudgeonly old moaner, feeling past it at the age of 45, inhibited and remorselessly self-critical – and in his treatment of the women in his life there is a lot to be criticised. But you also get a fascinating commentary on the business of writing poems, and revising poems. I’ve read this slowly, a bit at a time, every morning with a c mug of tea before breakfast. I’ve had the poems on the table as I’ve read. every time the letters mention a poem, I look it up, read it, and then go back to the letters. It feels a bit like being a professor without any of the tedious bits, and I’ve had a ball. It”s also reminded me just how good the best of the poems are.