Yes, I remember Adlestrop: Little Man Coffee Shop, Cardiff, 21.04

22 04 2017

An Evening Celebrating the Influence of Edward Thomas on Contemporary Poetry

The Saturday morning train slumbers out from Cardiff Central.  The light is fierce against the window.  I squint at the Thomas’ The Trumpet.  After days of reading about Edward Thomas, I feel I can see his influence everywhere.  The train announcer threads place names together, his tongue flicking and clicking as knitted needles do. 

Prior to this month’s celebrations – marking a century since his death, in 1917, at the Battle of Arras – Edward Thomas had been peripheral to me.  He was the gentle face on Dylan Thomas’ writing shed wall, a name that Ted Hughes annually migrated to in his letters, a reviewer who fashioned a famous friendship with Robert Frost.

A static caravan lies on its side in paddock like a dozing horse.  Newport’s potterywheel mudbank river. A line of race martials carry their road markers crucifix-fashion to some distant death. 

Before attending Friday night’s poetry evening, I endeavoured to discover as much as I could about Edward Thomas beyond that learnt by reading and re-reading his verse. The Wales Arts Review had an invaluable store of articles and audio: Jo Mazelis’ piece on the prose and Thomas’ In Pursuit of Spring: Gary Raymond’s Offscript  podcasts, compiling recordings of Thomas’ peers and family, and an interview with Katie Gramich and Alison Harvey of Cardiff University, links to a radio play of Nick Dear’s The Dark Earth and the Light Sky, to the documentary Elected Friends.

A wheel of men like a hunting party, armed with loaded dog-ball throwers, encircled by bored pets.  Factory chimneys a pair of train funnels.  A heron standing sentinel at the fork of two charging brooks.

Rachel Carney, the event organiser and compere, had assembled a busy coffee shop audience for a series of readings.  She had linked the evening to the National Poetry Writing Month with a series of daily challenges based on Thomas’ work, and workshops, had attained the support of Literature Wales and secured access on the evening to some fascinating archived material from Cardiff Special Collections. Her admiration for Edward Thomas caused her to bubble and giggle wonderfully, and her longstanding passion for the poet hummed in her voice like a bee’s each time she leaned into the microphone.
Lucy Newlyn, who read initially from her collection Ginnel, sharing poems enriched with the Yorkshire dialect of her youth, spoke about Edward Thomas’ colloquial tone and use of dialogue.  And as her poems began to assume a lexicon so similar to Thomas’ they could’ve have been once rubbed by his fingerprints, she reflected on how her work feels inhabited by him.  Her final poems were, she revealed, too close to Thomas’ voice for her to seek them published as hers.

 

Jonathan Edwards began with ‘Old Man’.  The poem, about the herb, that concludes with one of Thomas’ most celebrated lines, ‘only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.’ He shared poems from My Family and Other Superheroes, fastening them adroitly by their theme or their non-linear structure to Thomas’ verse or style.  He finished with an exciting new poem about an unexpected break from work and a walk in the autumn.  After his reading, he allowed me to study it alone and watched it, carefully, in my hands, like a parent whose child holds something alive, but stilled and fragile, something that waits to be placed back in the wild.  When I confided in him that it reminded me of Louis MacNeice’s poetry, he smiled at me earnestly and said, ‘I adore Louis MacNeice’.

I had intending to read the poem ‘Lob’ about finding truth in folklore, or indeed finding a way to be lost in its search, but didn’t quite trust in myself to deliver the six pages of rhyming couplets.  Instead, I read ‘Words’ and seized opportunity to link that ‘old cloak’ ‘worn new’ ‘fixed and free’ to the event in general, to all the readers, to Rachel, and to Edwards Thomas, whose verse attempted to make language and landscape ‘young as our streams after rain’.

Marc Hamer responded to a Thomas poem about chasing autumn leaves by examining his own position in the garden, his back ‘tattooed with clouds’. And Thomas Tyrell shared a memorable poem about the many different types of rain.  Other readers spoke about their imaginings of war abroad, of war at home, of indecision, of nostalgia, of owl encounters, of nature, of nature, of nature.

Furrows of a short crop, the earth tilled and bland.  Treetops hide the fields in lines of ash and larch, in brief suns of gorse, and then, unexpectedly, a window is illuminated by a crop of rape that charges off, surely all the way to the meridian.

‘Elected Friends’ documentary

Jo Mazelis’ article

Offscript – Gary Raymond in interview with Cardiff University

Offscript – Gary Raymond presenting archived recordings with Thomas’ family members





Recent Publications: Noble Gas Quarterly / The Lampeter Review / The Gull

4 03 2017
nobel-gas

Noble Gas 1

Nobel Gas Quarterly is a journal that seasonally publishes art, poetry and prose online. The Spring issue, which was released last week, contains rich new work by an international menu of aspirational writers, not least Beth Gilstrap, Benjamin Winkler and Craig Burnett.

The journal can be read online, for free, at: http://noblegas.org/

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Nobel Gas 2

the-gull-photos

Gull 1

The Gull, only in its second issue, is already an acclaimed collective of Swansea genius assembled by its editor Chris Cornwell.  It is brazen in its ambition and irresistible in its apposition of artwork, poetry, playscript, interview and cartoon. The pair of photographs, by Ian Kalinowski are typical of this entirely atypical, but free, magazine.

247 other pages of original art and writing can be enjoyed at: https://thegullmagazine.wordpress.com/the-gull-issue-no-1/

the-gull-glyn

Gull 2

tlr-front

TLR, The Lampeter Review, is the prestigious journal from Lampter’s Creative Writing Centre.

The recent issue, which arrived to my house in a beautiful binding, is also available online here: http://lampeter-review.com/

On page 48 is a poem by Simon Cockle that could embody this entire magazine: it is academic, thoughtful and will insist you return to it frequently.  The editorial, by the writer and poet Kathy Miles, is worthy alone of anyone’s morning commute reading.

tlr-glyn

TLR 2

tlr-poems

TLR 1

Next month, poems will feature in Zelda Chappel’s pertinent collection ‘A Furious Hope’, The Cardiff Review and a review of Tony Curtis’ collected poems, The Fortunate Isles, will be published on the Wales Arts Review.





Audio-recordings of two new poems

9 10 2016

An introduction to two poems and recordings of both.  There is also some context to each poem and their origins.

These poems, together with one other, were published in the Lonely Crowd last week.





Moortown

22 05 2016





JackdawQuarterly writers’ group: Summer meeting

30 04 2016

IMG_2244

Feel welcome to read a poem or an extract of prose, or to simply listen along to others on the theme ‘panic’.

 





Confessions to a Literary Agent

25 10 2015

She sits, silently shrinking into the hard leather seat,
palms joined, knees folded like a scolded child,
her body crossed by conflict.

There is a voice beyond the closed door,
persistent, protracted as candlelight;
then another, interrupting the guttered monologue.
A kindly intonation, leaning in
like someone at a lost car’s window,
a familiar accent pointing the way home.
Then the quiet apologies string together,
clinking like rosary beads, louder, nearer,
until the door opens and a faceless writer
falls out, back as bent as a broken book,
leaving the door ajar.

Though she enters the agent’s office
with a sheaf of papers swinging resolutely,
her tongue quickly kneels her down.
And both then know this pattern by rote
so the murmurs behind the screen
become a predictable Latin
while I note the following confession:

‘Our last meeting was fifty-two weeks ago,
I have despaired of my writing and know
I’ve broken the promise to write every day,
Neglected to read, forgotten to post
Entries to competitions (unless when drunk).
I’ve watched my blog become lazy and ‘like’
Posts without reading them. I’ve stolen
Similes, collected characters, I’ve sunk
To emulating ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’
And write about vampires my daughter’s age,
Now I borrow her books.  I even bought
My husband a kindle for his birthday.
I am sorry for these indiscretions –
The limitless sins of my non-profession.’

The agent swaps the sacrament for sacrifices,
‘Absolution will be your first publishing deal,’
she promises.  The writer can’t look at the words
as they chime, nor can she meet the eyes
of the next confessor outside on the pew.





That Talk: Glyn Maxwell and Simon Armitage at the Chester Literature Festival

24 10 2015

The hall is pleasantly packed and hums
with whispered voices like a weekday wine bar
or an autumnal garden near the village road.
The space echoes handsomely.

The compere stands outside, a robin
singing warm welcome, his wings wider
than the open doors. He shuffles from foot to foot,
checks his watch, nibbles a fingernail.

Across the room is a face I see and recall. Remember?
We talked on a commuters’ train to Crewe, before you
interviewed me for a place on a teaching course there.
Then shared the trainride back home, a decade ago.

The poets arrive, bless the congregation
with a shared prayer and then sit. The raised stage
quickly becomes a kitchen conversation and invisible smokes
of cigarette coax concealed wine glasses,

chandeliers soften to down lights,
coughs become the dog yawning and both men forget the crowd
that listens like an eavesdropper to their secrets,
complicit. Each hopes the other won’t reveal them.