ONE MAN’S LAUGH. . .

One man’s laugh is another man’s groan. Not everybody likes Ogden Nash (though I do). Not everybody rolls about at Hilaire Belloc’s Cautionary Tales (though I do). T S Eliot’s cats never got half the publicity of ‘The Waste Land’ and Ruth Pitter’s case for The Comic Muse has never really been heard.

Anyway, this week the first two HappenStance Po-Lites are nearly ready to hit the streets.

I think Martin Parker’s No Longer Bjored and Graham Austin’s Fuelling Speculation are a delight. Each of these gentlemen has what creative writing courses call a ‘distinctive voice’. I mean, they really do. The forms in which they write may be familiar (though not always) but the voice behind them is unique.

I knew I was going to publish Graham Austin, if he would let me, when I found myself chortling out loud in the conservatory and looking for someeone to read aloud to. When you feel it’s so funny you’ve got to share it, you’re onto a winner. As for Martin Parker, his Sampler has already entertained many readers: here’s some more of him. You simply have to read ‘The joy of pastry’!

Of course you may not agree. Humour is one of the most difficult things in the world to share. When I brought out Unsuitable Companions some years ago, the poem one person picked out as ‘hilarious’ was the one another reader thought totally tasteless.

So I guess you’re going to have to read these to find out. At least there’s something here you could buy someone who is NOT a poet for Christmas. . . .

 

STICK THE SONNETS IN THE GREY BIN

Poetry is always recycling itself: it’s a kind of permanent landfill.

Or to put it another way, it’s language that continually recycles itself: the soundtrack to our lives, popping up here and there, changing and churning, biodegrading, upgrading, forming a sludge the size of a continent somewhere in the middle of our collective unconcious.

Poetry is always recycling itself: it’s a kind of permanent landfill. Landfill, mindfill, handsfull, sound-swill.

Or to put it another way, it’s language that continually recycles itself: the soundtrack to our lives, popping up here and there, changing and churning, biodegrading, upgrading, forming a sludge the size of a continent somewhere in the middle of our collective unconcious.

If we have a collective unconscious. But then, that term’s just part of the sludge.

It’s an amazing thing, language. At least it amazes me. But it would, wouldn’t it? I’m one of the arch-perpetrators of making the sludge temporarily concrete, printing it onto a substance made from trees and packing it into little cellophane bags.

Rachel commented last week that she wondered why I bothered with the little bags. It’s because I think of the poetry pamphlets as valuable. The little bags protect the corners. The words keep beautifully inside those bags. If you buy a rare pamphlet publication — the kind that costs a hundred quid or so ((I have done this), they tend to come packed this way. So although pamphlets are ephemeral, I suppose I treat them like they’re not. I’m going to stop using the self-seal kind though.

And I like to work with local printers and feel that I am, in a tiny way, part of the local economy. Liz and Robert at the Dolphin Press in Glenrothes don’t do books. They do pamphlets, raffle tickets, flyers. They use machines they’ve had for a long time and skills they’ve had for longer. They talk to me and they have two beautiful dogs. I can pick up the publications on my way to collect my LovedOne from his workplace, so this feels sensible and sustainable to me.

Actually I rather like all the coloured bins, though I’m trying to put less in them. And Matt and I nearly had a row in Morrisons last week when I refused to buy the carrots in pre-packed bags and insisted on putting them in the trolley loose. All this fuss about one stupid bag! he ranted. But I make even more fuss about one stupid comma. Off to do more of that right now, in fact.

Reviews News

New pamphlet reviews on the website include:

 

There are new pamphlet reviews on the website! This has been slower than usual because of the rampage of publications going on in this little corner of the world and because of me fighting with the Inspiron machine (which has empowered, but not inspired me). And there will be more soon. It would be nice if I had had review copies from Faber’s new pamphlet imprint. Needless to say, none have arrived here . . .

 

Look out for reviews of:

David Ford’s Punch
Gill Andrews’ The Thief
Gina Wilson’s Scissors, Paper, Stone
Martin Lyon’s Sandcastles at Evening
Helen Ashley’s Ways of Saying
Lucy Lepchani’s The Beckoning Wild

Impact of No Impact Man

I just read Colin Beavan’s book No Impact Man. Saving the Planet One Family at a Time.

I also just lost this entry because I had forgotten the notebook wasn’t plugged in, so it ran out of power just as I got to the end.

I just read Colin Beavan’s book No Impact Man. Saving the Planet One Family at a Time.

I also just lost this entry because I had forgotten the notebook wasn’t plugged in, so it ran out of power just as I got to the end and ARRRGGGGHHH!!!

Honestly, in the end I will get better at this stuff. When did I unplug the mains cable? In my sleep? Why didn’t I notice that little red light?

So I began again. I saved as far as I had got, or thought I did. Suddenly the machine closed down. It was installing Windows Updates. No warning that I could see. I HATE Windows Updates. According to Matt’s bicycle magazine, research suggests that if you curse and swear a lot you can endure higher levels of pain. So . . .

Outside it’s raining again. It rained all day Friday. Yesterday it was sunny while I was sitting in a training session in Edinburgh; it started to rain while I was on the way home. Colin Beavan talks about “the little heralded water crisis”. “If we use it all up,” he points out, “there ewon’t be any left to drink.” It’s hard to imagine that in Scotland. That word ‘sustainability’, which is now a manadatory element on our teaching curriculum, means rain forests in Brazil, water shortages in Africa, bush fires in Australia. It is all somewhere else. What we have is a Sunshine Shortage.

Only it’s not all somewhere else. It’s a little planet and when you read the Beavan book, you feel it shrinking. Like the little cellophane packets I wrap my pamphlets in, each with its disposable unstick strip which I dutifully collect and put into the grey bin but soon it will be a blue bin, the landfill bin. (This week we acquired a green bin. We now have four different colours.) That Colin Beavan book is worth reading. It has some horrible formatting features, but it makes you uncomfortable in a worthwhile way. Unlike Windows Updates.

Jon and Kirsty (Fuselit) have decided to restrict the paper issue of that magazine (beautifully and uniquely assembled by hand) to 100 numbered copies. After that it will be readable electronically. (Colin Beavan’s family could read as much as they wanted electronically during their no-impact year — just no newspapers and no new books.) For Jon and Kirsty the reduced paper commitment means their input will be more sustainable. It’s eminently sensible. They are doing wonderful work. Read them. Get one of the hundred numbered copies and keep it forever!

I think I will reduce the print run of the HappenStance pamphlets again. The boxes in the spare room are reproaching me. I think it’s good to have fewer copies and have them (hopefully) treasured. I can’t bring myself to go electronic with poetry, though I’m not in principle opposed to e-readers or even to reading books on an electronic screen — if I could find one that WOULDN’T SWITCH ITSELF OFF TO UPDATE WINDOWS.

Computer RAGE strikes

You think it won’t get you but it does. It does.

I remember an occasion when my son was eight years old. He was so enraged with his Sega that he shrieked and hurled it across the room. It crashed into his father’s hi-fi.

You think it won’t get you but it does. It does.

I remember an occasion when my son was eight years old. He was so enraged with his Sega that he shrieked and hurled it across the room. It crashed into his father’s hi-fi.

Naturally I separated him speedily from the offending machine and dispensed superior wisdom about patience and so on. I was thirty-eight but I had never experienced what he was experiencing. It was another three years before I started to teach myself word-processing.

The rage! The frustration! The despair! Things disappear! You spend whole days learning to do something, creating a wondrous document, and then it vanishes forever.

Which is the sort of thing that happened to me this afternoon, while trying to master this little machine, and get the missing reviews back on the website. Oh the muddles I have got in! Oh the messes I have made!

‘Use Notepad,’ Sarah advised. What did I do? Used Wordpad. It is NOT THE SAME. And the number of times I have hit the home key by accident and closed the file with nothing saved . . .

Yes, I wanted to hurl the machine across the room. Instead I went downstairs and parcelled up the orders and then read for half an hour in the conservatory with the leaking roof. A leaking roof is NOTHING in terms of annoyance.

I believe all the reviews are back. I think I may have cracked it, since Sarah saved me again. I may not. Watch this space.

Meanwhile, I’ll go and edit the other reviews, the ones that have been sitting untended for the last three weeks to a month. Where does the time go? (Don’t answer that.)

Gill Andrews and the Forty Thieves

I didn’t think it was funny until after she’d gone away. But then I realised that I’d handed her forty thieves in a box. I should have put them in a big jar, like Ali Baba. I have a jar. . . .

The thieves were for the London launch of The Thief, which is at seven pm on Monday 25th October in the second floor suite of the Old Crown in new Oxford Street. The Old Crown doesn’t have a sign outside showing its name, but it is the pub on the corner of New Oxford Street and Museum Street, about halfway between Tottenham Court Road and Holborn tubes. If you think you can go along (please do), email me on nell@happenstancepress.com and I’ll let her know. That’s if I manage to get this blog post to appear. . .

I didn’t think it was funny until after she’d gone away. But then I realised I’d handed her forty thieves in a box. I should have put them in a big jar, like Ali Baba. I have a jar. . . .

The thieves were for the London launch of The Thief, which is at seven pm on Monday 25th October in the second floor suite of the Old Crown in new Oxford Street. The Old Crown doesn’t have a sign outside showing its name, but it is the pub on the corner of New Oxford Street and Museum Street, about halfway between Tottenham Court Road and Holborn tubes. If you think you can go along (please do), email me on nell@happenstancepress.com and I’ll let her know. That’s if I manage to get this blog post to appear. . .

But now I am sounding silly, and there is a reason for this. I’m typing on the new machine, the little bijou Inspiron which allows me to use Windows 7 and do things that I don’t seem to be able quite to do from my Mac.

New machines are always lovely in one way and HORRIBLE in another. They do things you aren’t expecting. They do things too fast. Their mice aren’t the same as the mice you’re used to — in this case it’s a touchpad which seems to move things before I know I’ve touched it properly.

To such an extent that I just finished this entry and then lost it when I somehow got to the previous webpage by accident. Oh hell. I had just successfully uploaded a picture of berries in the garden (to prove it really is autumn now) and was about to save everything with a sense of triumph, when I lost everything with a sense of exasperation.

Then I got to the end, repeated the process, got the nice picture, tried to resize it — and blow me down, did I not somehow close everything? I somehow had logged myself out and was responsible for Windows closing down, then starting up again, installing its updates — all beceause I did something (I know not what) with this ‘floating touchpad’. Floating touchpad, my foot.

I had mentioned, before that, the point HappenStance is  more or less up to. Kate Scott, and the three Samplers nearly off to the printers (about to finalise pdfs and send them to authors), the first two publications in the Po-Lite series in draft form and posted them to their authors, Martin Parker and Graham Austin, yesterday. I hope to start type-setting Alan Hill today.

I know some of the reviews have got lost in the Sphinx area. It was to do with the changeover. I’ll put them back as soon as I can, if I can get this new machine to be my friend. I probably can. I’m getting used to the keyboard. Just not to making the window I’m reading in look like the right size and resolution for me.

Okay. Let’s try putting that picture in again now. . . this has only taken an hour and a half so far.

Autumn
Clematis berries, Autumn

 

 

 

 

What a week!

The switch finally happened — from old website to new one. An email shot went out to hundreds of people to announce this. Then, as requested, masses of you registered with the site so you could use the shop and comment on this blog.

Then we realised there was a snag. It was not enough just to register. People needed to get to the point of sale (because this is when full details are saved in the database) for us to be able to apply the subscriber discount (and lots of you are subscribers).

Hell’s bells! The frenzy of activity! When people sent their emails asking to have subscriber discount applied, we had to reply asking them to buy something and then cancel, so we could adjust them to discount status. Dutifully, people did as asked, but the orders just came through to me as real orders, not as cancelled ones. I had lost the plot by then anyway and posted out whatever was ordered, forgetting it was probably not a real purchase, just a way of getting details entered.

We changed the strategy then and asked people to ‘buy’ one of the free downloads (which obviously doesn’t involve me putting anything in an envelope) and things started to settle down, apart from the dozens of spammers attempting to register.

This website development has been happening since early August. Lots of work has been done, financed by Michael Marks. Some of it is still work in progress. Our pamphlets, being all on cream card, looked a bit boring in the shop. Yesterday, Sarah had the brilliant idea of scanning them all against coloured paper. Take a look — what a difference!

Sample poems for all publications will be in place soon. They’re not there yet. It would be easier if my Mac was more prepared to talk to the technology. I ordered a Windows laptop yesterday, just for the web work. All of this — everything that is used to make up this website — is freeware. And when such marvellous resources are free, you can’t complain.

HappenStance HappeningWhile this electronic mayhem was in progress, in the background I was folding and printing. I am still folding and printing actually. Folding the new cards and flyers, printing price lists, updating the subscriber list, printing the address labels. All this is so things can go out by snail mail this week. I’m up to letter J.

So if you are a subscriber, you should have an interesting brown envelope dropping through your letter box this week with various things inside it. The aim was to raise the subscription list to 200 by the end of this year. In fact, 193 people have subscribed in the last 4 years, but we have lost some of them. About 30 have lapsed, and a few have died. That means we still need more. Talk to your friends — any that like poetry — this is such a good deal. They can’t lose.

And if you should be a person who aspires to have work published here, subscribe! Keep the press going.

Honorary assistant sticking labels on envelopes

There’s much more to say but you’ll get bored. I’ll save it for later . . .

Megrims and mayhem

I said I had fallen a bit behind. Fell further this week. The megrim arrived, much grimmer than usual. I love the word ‘megrim’. Old word for migraine but also, I learn, describes a whim or caprice — as in indulging in megrims.

And ‘megrim’ is also a species of turbot. Edible. Hm.

Last week I confessed I’d fallen behind schedule. Not too far. Just a wee slip and slither. However, I fell further this week, mutter, mutter.

The megrim arrived, and grimmer than usual. I love the word ‘megrim’. Old word for migraine but also, I learn, describes a whim or caprice. And . . . er . . .  ‘megrim’ is also a species of turbot. Edible.

 

You migraine sufferers and turbots out there know all about the grimmery. I had to get some pills to stop me throwing up this time — which is a first — and the whole thing took over about three days of the week. However, I’m back. It’s glorious sunshine. We’re about to switch on the new website and switch off this one. It’s technical. Sarah keeps explaining to me how it will work and I keep not understanding it. But this blog will appear just the same. It is the website that will look different.

Behind the scenes, the mechanics of the thing are incredibly clever, though it would be more straightforward if I were working from Windows and not a Mac, much as I love my iMac.

Meanwhile the three Samplers are still simmering and not quite finalised, the mailshot to subscribers is still not quite done — I have to update the list and do the address labels — it takes ages. There are reviews to write, Sphinx reviews to edit into triplicate and post, more pamphlets to send out to reviewers, new pamphlets to start thinking about. And I daren’t think yet. Not quite yet. Still haven’t got Kate Scott’s cover licked into shape — and the Fife Placename Limericks need pictures putting into their pages.

Outside, it’s a glorious autumn day. The wind is rippling the trees merrily but not sweeping the leaves off in swathes. Berries are gleaming from hedgerows. Amazing.

Now I’ve just got to work out how to put the picture of the berries into this blog in the new website.The really good thing about bad headaches (or any other sort of acute but temporary pain) is the way you appreciate so much not being in pain when it stops. It gives you back that thing you had forgotten: the contentment of being at peace inside a human body.

Which today I am. This body is very comfortable, thank you. I’ll stay here a bit longer, and get on with my work.

More on Indian Summers

Matt Merritt sent me this, after reading the last post:

“There’s another old British name for Indian summer, which you almost touch upon. It used to be known as ‘Goose Summer’, probably because it was a time of year at which fattened geese were slaughtered for eating. It’s also possibly because it coincided with the annual arrival of huge flocks of wild geese and swans from their Arctic breeding grounds – the main migration is usually in October.

Matt Merritt sent me this, after reading the last post:

“There’s another old British name for Indian summer, which you almost touch upon. It used to be known as ‘Goose Summer’, probably because it was a time of year at which fattened geese were slaughtered for eating. It’s also possibly because it coincided with the annual arrival of huge flocks of wild geese and swans from their Arctic breeding grounds – the main migration is usually in October.

‘Goose summer’ eventually became corrupted to ‘gosssamer’, which was then applied to the strands of spider web that are particularly visible at this time of year.”

I love this!

Saint Britta, whose story is lost

Someone in the Post Office (where I was spending a small fortune posting boxes and packets of pamphlets) referred to this lovely ‘Indian Summer’ — that term we use to describe a period of warmth and sunshine, after ‘summer’ is officially over. It’s been gorgeous this week, though in Scotland, this morning, it has given way to thick grey cloud again. Why Indian? I thought I’d look it up.

Immediately I discovered it wasn’t a ‘true’ Indian summer this last week. True Indian summer has to be after the first proper frost, so we’re talking October or November. And anyway, the term ‘Indian’ summer only began to be widely used in the UK, according to Wikipedia, in the twentieth century, when American influence became more potent than European, the ‘Indian’ deriving from Native American references.

Someone in the Post Office (where I was spending a small fortune posting boxes and packets of pamphlets) referred to this lovely ‘Indian Summer’ — that term we use to describe a period of warmth and sunshine, after ‘summer’ is officially over. It’s been gorgeous this week, though in Scotland, this morning, it has given way to thick grey cloud again. Why Indian? I thought I’d look it up.

Immediately I discovered it wasn’t a ‘true’ Indian summer this last week. True Indian summer has to be after the first proper frost, so we’re talking October or November. And anyway, the term ‘Indian’ summer only began to be widely used in the UK, according to Wikipedia, in the twentieth century, when American influence became more potent than European, the ‘Indian’ deriving from Native American references.

Before that, it would have been a St Martin’s Summer, named after the French Saint Martin of Tours, who died on November 8th in 397 AD. Rather a long time ago.

However, Saint Martin’s death became a good story. Corpses of saints were valuable: people made pilgrimages to pray at their gravesides, get healed and even get relics (the original tourist and merchandise industry).

Martin died in Candes-sur-Loire, later named Candes-Saint-Martin in his honour. He had converted the pagans after all and knocked down their temple (they didn’t do diversity in those days). Anyway, according to legend his body was snatched in unchristian manner by the people of Poitou, who popped him in a boat and floated him downriver to Tours, where they buried him (though not according to the website of Candes-Saint-Martin which suggests he is buried there. He was once, it seems, but he was definitely shifted).

Anyway, the ‘St Martin’s Summer’ refers to the way, according to legend, the vegetation on the river bank flowered as the saint’s stolen body floated past. It was November 8th and things definitely shouldn’t have been flowering by then.

Saint Martin himself was actually Hungarian. According to the history of Catholic Saints, he was in the Roman Army, got converted, and once he was demobbed became a Catholic and, in due course, a Saint. It must have suited him because he lived to the age of 81, a ripe old age in those dark days.

He was a popular saint, so an Indian summer in Spain is Veranillo de San Miguel or Veranillo de San Martin, depending on which date it occurs (either September 29 or November 11th). In Galicia and Portugal they celebrate Saint Martin’s day with bonfires, roasted chestnuts and wine.

In Russia, it’s ‘Old Women’s Summer’, in Bulgaria ‘Gypsy Summer’ or even ‘Gypsy Christmas’. In Sweden, it’s Brittsommar, which is linked by the name day for Saints Brigitta and Britta, celebrated by an open-air market on October 7th. Saint Brigitta was a medieval mystic with a complicated story; even her daughter became a saint. But poor Britta — she was a fourth century virgin, martyred with Saint Maura – and her story is lost! Her relics were discovered by Saint Euphronius, Bishop of Tours, (where Saint Martin is buried).

In Germany, Austria and Hungary, it’s ‘Old Ladies Summer’ (Altweibersommer) or ‘Crone’s Summer’. That is (allegedly) because of the white threads of the canopy spiders in autumn, in turn  associated with the white haired Norns, the demi-goddesses who live at the base of Yggdrasil and control our destiny.

In Scotland (but not in England, Ireland or Wales), the European Martinmas (November 11th) was one of the quarter days. That is to say the days when servants were hired and rents were due. That meant a holiday, and in religious terms an opportunity for feasting before fasting.

All of which brings me to the sorry conclusion that we have not had a St Martin’s Summer, or an Old Wives Summer, or a Brittsommar. We haven’t even had an Indian Summer. It’s too soon. What we have had is a few lovely days in late summer, early autumn, and we should be jolly grateful and get on with it.

For me, it’s been so beautiful in the garden that I found it hard to work at the desk, but nevertheless that has been necessary. Kate Scott’s pamphlet, Escaping the Cage, is more or less complete though the cover’s not done.  Three Samplers, from Isobel Montgomery-Campbell, Patrick Yarker and Tom Vaughan, are in the post in draft to their authors, who will provide a bonny signature for me to scan for the front. Parcels of the Hardy pamphlet have gone scurrying hither and thither. Two new PoemCards are ready, one by Maggie Butt for empty nesters; the other by Bruce James — the comical but melancholy tale of the Woodworm. More will follow.

My next task is to organise a subscriber mailshot, which will have all sorts of interesting things in it. The new website is about to go live; some teething problems yesterday.

And then it’s on to Martin Parker (redoubtable editor of Lighten-Up Online) and Graham Austin (two PoLites), Tim Love (pamphlet) and Alan Hill (tankas). I’m slightly behind schedule, and the accounts are also demanding my attention. A small prayer to Saint Martin about now might be useful, though I think I’ll appeal to Saint Britta, whose story was lost. I can relate to that.

I’ll plan a little chestnut roasting for next month. . . .