THE SPACE BETWEEN THE STANZAS

This is cheating. I am really thinking about StAnza.

And this morning it’s snowing and around me all the trees are white and I’m not even there. I’m working. But this is a space between yesterday (when I was there) and today when I’m working.Snow in the garden

When I went to bed last night my head was full of the space between the stanzas, which for me was the space between the events at StAnza. The events are many, marvelous and magical, of course, and you can read about them elsewhere.

The spaces between the events are just as remarkable, and somewhat more mysterious because completely unpredictable, and not on the programme. When you run an arts festival, you create spaces for unexpected concatenations, correspondences and coalescences. I know that’s just alliteration, but how do you describe it?

On your way to hear a poet read, someone you may never have heard of, perhaps even in a language you don’t know, you stop for a coffee and fall into conversation with  Michel (?) from Belgium, there to present a film poem event, and whose job it is to co-ordinate and run literary events in  Antwerp – such a charming and interesting young (to me) man. And then we are joined by poet Paula Jennings and Jenny Elliott. Jenny is an old friend (we were once StAnza trustees together) and also a poet and originator of the Shed Press (in her garden shed). Together we sorted out European politics and then moved on to discuss our mothers, over soup and sandwiches (it’s not just poetry). As the table filled up with friends, I moved the flowers onto the floor. Out of the corner of my eye I could see people I knew and wanted to speak to, and others I dimly recognized from their dusty photos on book jackets.

Then an event and then the poetry book fair and then more chats with Tony Lawrence, who has redefined poetry according to laws of mathematics, and the man from Monifieth whose name I can’t remember but who has come to the festival every year for eleven years, and D A Prince, and Karin Koller, and Robyn Marsack and Sheila Wakefield and Stephanie Green and a long conversation – the longest we have ever had, (a GREAT conversation about the late David Tipton and his wife Ena Hollis, taking in John Lucas, Tony Ward and Alan Hill) – with Martin Bates; and another with the lady at the second hand book stall – shop in Newport – I forget her name but it will come back to me; and of course Gerry Cambridge and briefly Rob Mackenzie.

And Richie McCaffery and Stef, and Sally Evans and how lovely to see Ann Drysdale, who has written a whole book about Newport and thus a long conversation about W H Davies and other matters, and briefly (hug interval) Lyn Moir, and Lydia Harris (well met, for the first time) and Christine Webb, and Robert Minhinnick on Dylan Thomas, and Joy Howard and Alan Gay.

And many more. Many more, and some sought for but just missed. Deus ex machina (I’ve just realised that’s a double dactyl) Eleanor Livingstone slipping in and out carying strange objects and messages and inspirations. And others glimpsed in the distance or pausing to share treasure, or say ‘see you later’.

Extraordinary.

The sun has come out and lit up the snow.

And now back to work.

SHOULD POETRY BE MORE COMPETITIVE?

Well, now. Until Saturday I would have said (nay, shouted) NO!

Well, now. Until Saturday I would have said (nay, shouted) NO!

However, the Inky Fingers A Knife Fight in a Telephone Box changed all that. This was an Edinburgh Festival Fringe event at the Forest Café. This is a hot little dive at the best of times, but it has great atmosphere.

On Saturday all sorts of things were going on there. Kevin Cadwallender, for example, was in process of masterminding a record-breaking 48-hour continuous poetry reading event, for example – a new poet every fifteen minutes – and carrying on most of Friday night. Now THAT takes dedication. It was easy being one of the readers. Turn up. Have a nice cup of tea. Listen to a couple of poets. Read for fifteen minutes and go off to have dinner, attend an event … whatever. Meanwhile, Kevin sat there nobly welcoming, liaising, introducing. Of such stuff are poetry heroes made.

Then at 7.00 the seriously competitive bit started. That catchy title – ‘A Knife Fight in a Telephone Box’ – was used by one of our major poets to describe recent events at the Poetry Society. I didn’t know it was actually the title of a song. My informant was poet and HappenStance subscriber Jim Brown, who knew immediately this was a reference to an album by the American band Bleed the Sky.

The original album was Murder the Dance (2008), and the track in question was in fact A Knife Fight in a Telephone Booth. I hope the original music’s better than the lyrics, but fortunately at the Forest Café event no blood was spilled, though the competition was intense.

The two competing teams were Andrew Phillip, Sandy Hutchison and Rob A Mackenzie representing Salt Publishing. The opposing side comprised Martin Figura, Helen Ivory and myself. Order was established and maintained by the redoubtable Tim Turnbull  — a marvellous master of ceremonies. (Martin has a particularly good Fringe show of his own each afternoon, so he was on overtime).

There was some ordinary stuff – yeah. We read poems like poets do. But in between, things happened that were more unusual. For example, one member of each team read a poem while two others interpreted the poem in terms of contemporary dance. It’s a long time since I’ve laughed so much.

And there were unforgettable moments when Rob Mackenzie and Helen Ivory read a well-known poem aloud, while competing to see how many ice cubes they could put in their mouths during the performance.

Really, poetry should be much more competitive. You can see the light of ambition in their eyes as they prepare to take on the Enemy. It takes determination to be a poet, you know.

Sandy, Rob and Andy. The Dance.Helen prepares to read on ice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rob A Mackenzie reading on ice

Savouring Salt

Yesterday was the Salt Cellar opening at the Scottish Poetry Library — a lovely event, full of verve and entertainment and interesting people. Wena Poon, author of Lions in Winter, flew from the States to the UK to read, and a most memorable reading at that (I love all writing that focusses on cake)! So there were two American voices because Crashaw-Prize-winning Ryan Van Winkle read too. And Scottish: Rob Mackenzie, Andy Philip and Sandy Hutchison. Singing kept creeping in. Rob sang a couple of lines. Sandy sang a whole song. Ryan became Springsteen and deserved a toast for that alone. There were north of England voices too: the remarkable Tim Turnbull looking so good with that amazing moustache and of course Chris Hamilton-Emery himself. Really lovely to meet him and Jen in person, not to mention the kids.

Yesterday was the Salt Cellar opening at the Scottish Poetry Library — a lovely event, full of verve and entertainment and interesting people. Wena Poon, author of Lions in Winter, flew from the States to the UK to read, and a most memorable reading at that (I love all writing that focusses on cake)! So there were two American voices because Crashaw-Prize-winning Ryan Van Winkle read too. And Scottish: Rob Mackenzie, Andy Philip and Sandy Hutchison. Singing kept creeping in. Rob sang a couple of lines. Sandy sang a whole song. Ryan became Springsteen and deserved a toast for that alone. There were north of England voices too: the remarkable Tim Turnbull looking so good with that amazing moustache and of course Chris Hamilton-Emery himself. Really lovely to meet him and Jen in person, not to mention the kids.

 

I had a rendez-vous with Gill Andrews an hour or so before the Salt event to go through poems in her pamphlet (which is going to be marvellous, by the way, once we settle on the contents — and the title). Possible titles so far:

  • Profit and Loss
  • Where I Am At
  • Fabric
  • For All the Wrong Reasons
  • Webs
  • Passport to Anywhere
  • Further

We sat on high stools at the window of the Starbucks just around the corner from the poetry library so we could spread the poems out sideways. When you sit here, you have the advantage (among other advantages because this is a nice cafe) of seeing visitors to SPL walk past you.

Two especially memorable moments. First seeing Rob Mackenzie walk past the window on the way to the reading. I attracted his attention (waving) and he stopped and turned. He was wearing a brilliant, beautifully blue shirt which perfectly matched the packet of Doritos he was eating. On the packet: COOL, ORIGINAL.

Second Starbucks moment: while waiting to get into the Ladies, glanced at the bookcase of free books for reading in the cafe and saw a hardback copy of Ariadne’s Children, a novel by my brother-in-law Roddy Beaton (or ex-brother-in-law, if you want to get technical). I have it in paperback, not hardback. Naturally, I seized it,  opened it. It was Angus Calder’s copy. Angus’s library, spread all round Edinburgh now he is gone. I wonder if he reviewed it? I had to have it, of course. They let me take it away and I left Jeremy Page and Sphinx 12 in its place.

Where will all our books go after we’re dead? Who will find them and pick them up and take them home?

All set for the birthday party in SPL in two weeks time. Saturday June 12th, three for three thirty. Are you coming?