When I'm 64

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greeting, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I'm sixty-four.

It's Happy Christmas from me and it's Happy Christmas from him

Wyndham Lewis, not quite forgotten

If you haven't heard of Wyndham Lewis, or not seen his work for a while, please take time out to acquaint yourself. This year is 50 years since he died and his old school put on an exhibition of his work. The following is a quote from Rugby School:

After primary schooling in Bedford and Ealing, Lewis entered Rugby School at the age of fourteen and appears to have enjoyed its tough, sporting ethos: 'Quite unlike most who write about their Public Schools . . . I am unable to say I had a disagreeable time.' Academically his time at the school was undistinguished, however, and he came bottom of his class of 28. Fifty years after his death, our culture still does not know what to make of the art and writing of one of the most talented, intelligent and vital of its twentieth century creators.

Hear, hear is what I say to their last comment. I have greatly admired Wyndham Lewis's work for years and have all of his books and two of his drawings. It is beyond my belief to see this year pass by and only his school has shown his work. Surely one of the public galleries should have recognised this great man who, work wise, stood head & shoulders above most of the others of his time. Look at the fine portraits. Stand back and gasp at the draftsmanship. Remember when all this was being done: almost a hundred years ago.

I refer to Lewis's art, but let's not forget his novels, poetry and polemics; as strident as his pencil on paper. Time, perhaps, for me to quote one of my poems from way back, that refers to WL, James Joyce, Eliot & Pound. It was published in CORE magazine:

Eye corners, eye corners

always eye corners.

Now, just as then, askance

at userers and usury.

Gone banker to right from drudgery

or bog eyed stupefier.

Just a botched civilisation

gone in the tooth

for a few Sunflowers let loose.

Where then, worse now,

and unCantoed.

A pound of this a pound of that

is just a pound of anything

and not a pound of Poundian.

So, as this year passes, let's remember the good guys, the good gals, the great dogs and the wonderful things to come. Christmas approaches and that brings joy to most people; so whoever you are, wherever you are: enjoy the moment and be in the moment. Always.

Wyndham Lewis, Nude, 1938

Here's looking at St Pancras Station

It's a great place to visit or to travel to or from. Scattered throughout the concourse are poetry plaques with lines from many of the great and good. Plus a sculpture of John Betjeman and a bar named after him too! So here's a pic of JB and a huge bronze of two people in a 'brief encounter'. Go there and enjoy.

Here's me, Jennifer & Stuart at Joe Allen's in London after a great lunch and just before we went off to see Chicago. Happy days!

Stuart's photo to come

Sorry I have not been able to show you the photo I mentioned below. I'm having slight technical problems!!!

Kind hearts and coronets

A number of interesting coincidences happened to me recently which brought the past into the present and, hopefully, the future.

 

Firstly the service at Westminster Abbey for the Queen and her husband organised by our dear friend Stuart Holmes who you will see in the photo later on with Jennifer, my wife. As always Stuart, and all those at Westminster Abbey, represent the finest English tradition, with pomp & ceremony in good order. I've known Stuart for at least 25 years and he just gets better and better. He recently returned from the Great Wall of China where he walked for charity to the impressive tune of ten thousand pounds. Luckily we were able to meet-up at Joe Allen's in Covent Garden, London. What a great time we had, followed by Chicago the musical which is now in its 10th year in London. That was a real show stopper - no wonder Stuart has seen it 8 times!

 

Then we stumbled across Antonio Carluccio standing in Neal Street looking at what used to be his pasta emporium; now sadly gone because greedy landlords have forced him out of the place where he first started and clearly still loves. The property is being given over to American Apparel: do you call that progress?

 

None of this is to do with what this blog is supposed to be about, namely my writing over the years. So I've looked through my archives and tried to find a piece that is more of a diary note than a poem or play. More appropriate for a blog.

 

As it happens it describes another great city: Prague:

 

Running through the dark cobbled streets we catch sight of the Kafka Cafe. The quick cuts of the shifting black rectangles: disturbed. We stopped. The sound of a violin echoed towards us. It was sweet but piercing. Haunting. The sound came from an unlit archway. Such beauty in such a place. The setting, the melody. Indescribable beauty and romance. We had hurried from an opera and now seemed to be a part of an opera.

 

Memories, quick cuts. Life in a collage. I hope yours is a wonderful kaleidoscope.

 

 

Yin Yang and Bertram Lloyd

Delving back over my archives and looking to the future is turning out to be a bit of a Yin and Yang. What's good about it is the way you can compare and contrast. The swinging sixties of yesteryear and the more focused techno life of today (you talk to the world, you talk to yourself). Back then I used to do poetry collages, now I just rummage through my past creative ramblings and pull out a gem or two; like:

 

I was once complimented on a title I gave to a story I wrote: 'The man who drank his socks.'  Titles can be important, unfortunately the story that followed was not. This next piece of prose I found has no title, other than the fact that it came from a chance remake my daughter made. After all these years later it still has a resonance of sorts:

 

Those moments of complete peace; a high note as the flute reaches the edge of the horizon and transcends into the purest, colourless sky.

 

It was remarked that I was always likely to put a loose head into a landscape, such was my fascination with faces.

 

So I cupped my hand and rocked the mercury water: its landscape of reflected sky winked in the kink of the uneven rock.

 

I threw it to my face and silver jewellery hung from my ears and hair. I was a harlequin now dancing to fluted music.

 

Excuse me Mrs Pankquery, do you have a spinning disc on your toe, you carousel so well I feel I have reached the music box.

 

And so it went on, a certain charm amongst the nonsense. None of that with Kevin Spacey, all gems no nonsense. He is shortly to be the subject here of a major TV documentary on the work he has done and so much of that, recently, is to do with the Old Vic theatre which he has breathed life into. That was a challenge and a half when he took that on (in the steps some time ago of Lord Olivier). But he has done remarkably well. Staying true to his principles and giving us some great theatre. Not long ago we went to see The Entertainer at the Old Vic, a revival of the classic that Laurence Olivier starred in 50 years ago. Robert Lindsay took the lead this time around. A moment in the theatre that was unforgettable. The whole ensemble were brilliant. I believe it then went to Broadway...catch it if you can.

 

I ramble. Back to the past while looking at the future developing in the orched leaves of this Autumn. A season, a year, that seems to keep slapping us around our complacent faces. A flood here, a fire there; natural disasters everywhere. No so much natural as truly of our own making. I visited an old airfield this week, where there was a hangar filled from floor to ceiling, with thousands and thousands of boxes filled with old empty printer cartridges, destined for land-fill until this company came into existence to recycle every single part (including the unused toner, which will be send to Canada!). A timely reminder that we need to be a bit faster off the ground.

 

But what of Bertram Lloyd? For those that know me, or have read this blog, you will be aware of my life-long interest in Ezra Pound. Well, one of the items I have associated with him is a first edition of The Faming Terrapin by Roy Campbell published by Jonathan Cape in 1924. There is an inscription on the fly-leaf in ink by Ezra Pound, that says:

 

Bertram Lloyd

        from EP

 

With a line underneath and what looks like a 2.

 

So, the question is, who was Bertram Lloyd? I've looked through the many, many books I have by and about Pound and can find no clue. In the days I am referring to authors did not willy nilly sign books (especially Pound, where signed items are very rare) so I assume Bertram Lloyd had some special significance. If you can help me understand the connection I will be more than grateful. 

 

I am unsure as to whether I am grateful to Norman Mailer whose life was celebrated recently. Great writer no doubt, but a bit too good. His last known book was 'The Castle in the Forest' which was published this year. A book attempting to explore the evil of Adolf Hitler. So good was it that I found it very disturbing. Forget the nightmares, this gave me daymares too. Trouble was it only went as far as the subject's adolescence. Did Norman complete the trilogy? Do I really want to know the rest? 

 

Now, I must return to the present, and consider the future. A walk along the sea sounds good, before the bluster of Autumn slaps us in the face once more.

Anybody there?

It's been a long while since I blogged, sorry if you missed me but I think in the end you're only as good as your last blog and, more importantly, I think blogs are better in the NOW than THEN. So a change of direction from what was to what is. I'm not abandoning the whole idea of reviewing my past but, I want to add in some reflections about now to give a rich flavour and more to chew on.

 

I take the lead on all of this from my daughter-in-law's blog: www.katson.blogspot.com . It is, in my opinion, one of the best blogs that you'll come across. There again, another good one is Melvyn Bragg's weekly blog (which you can reach via the BBC website). So, with those two as torches in the world of blogs, let me go on into the realm of exploration. Come with me on the journey, let me know you're there. It's going to be good ...

 

Bounce. Wow that was a long nap. It's all dingy in here, with lots of cobwebs everywhere. But it is beginning to clear. Trouble is, when I left you I had just celebrated the publication of my poem about Ezra Pound; the result of ten years in the making. A milestone. Now where? Well that was in the early part of the 21st century and I had to concentrate on other things than writing (a mistake I know, but I had sold my soul to mammon long ago). But when I could find time, I found that my creative impulses were turning away from just poetry to fiction. I will give some examples later but, for now, here's a musing from my notebook:

 

As you listen to the fortune

of the wind

and understand the creaks

of the bark

 

Play me now

I am unto you.

 

And have always been.

 

It is a mark I carry

as a symbol

a cast from the rest.

 

We are joined

but individual

a band

of criers.

 

I am, but many

that kiss the stone

and pats the hand

upon my shoulder.

 

Hang on, I said I would be in the now and not just the then: so how about Stephen Poliakoff? Last night there was a celebration of his work on BBC2. Magnificent. Such an imagination. Poetry for the eye. The man claims he makes films for television because he has complete control. Film industry: give him complete control. We need his work on the big screen. NOW. I know what makes him great, it's because he's a writer, as well as a director. That's why he needs complete control so he can take us into his mind and show us his creations. I have always seen the mind as a spiral staircase with landings containing collections that we discover on our way to seeing...well I haven't got to the top yet, so I cannot tell you what's there, but on the way the light holes get bigger, you can see further, and the clatter of that that is down below becomes less and less.

 

So, I'm back, hope you'll want to stay with me. If you do, what do I offer: weekly musings, a mix of stuff on the style of Kathy's blog. Most importantly, it would be good to have a dialogue. I met some great people on a recent trip to San Francisco to see my son and daughter-in-law: if this blog gets passed on like a round robin; greetings to you all, I so much enjoyed being in your company.

 

Until the next time, keep climbing your own staircase: I'll wave to you from my peep-holes.

YouPlay

I interrupt this diatribe to bring you my latest idea:

 

YouPlay

 

A virtual theatre, that will today receive it's World Premiere.

 

Being as good as its contributors, I'll start, you carry on:

 

The scene is a busy street, in a busy city. From the crowd two people come to the front of the stage, a young man and a young woman.

 

GIRL:     Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?

 

BOY:      Could be, where do you hangout?

 

GIRL:    The internet, where else?

 

BOY:      Don't get clever with me. I'm real, remember that?

 

GIRL:    The strange thing is, I don't remember it.

 

(The stage clears completely. Down comes a giant screen. The next reply to this, goes on that screen. Come, let's play: YouPlay)

 

 

 

 

Ten years in the making

So, here it is, my major poem. It is in ten stanzas and took from 1993 to 2003 to complete. Notice the part that could have foretold 9/11.

Pound's Oysters

I

And, in the spirit of others before
a great journey was to unfold.

Being in the eye of the mind
it had a splendour of its own.
More than that;
but how to show it.
How to describe such a majesty:

you'll have to trust what I say
in describing it to you,
as though you were the lids of my eyes
opening up to what I see.

But because it is only between us
there will be the need
of some interpretative signs,
save others may stumble upon this
and the beauty be bountiful.

Let the colours be unsaid
for who knows what red is blood
what sea is blue
what grass is green,
if they all suffer from the same name.

It must be a new experience
sepulchral in its importance
for that is what Pound saw
by opening the ancient oyster shell
and finding a pearl where there was no pearl.

On such a deity will this be fixed
for if you look you see
and if you don't you have not;
it is a colour of a different kind.

II

Time itself, was not to be as slow
measured in men's muscles
and death's most often. Not now.
Of that there were many oysters
we had cracked in newness filled.

Each was a capsule of memories
conveniently skimming waves
leaving the wrecks of their crafts
as fascinating rafts, if needed.

Lifting the lid shows a journey
of another hue.
Pure paste, eye wash -
hardly enough to warrant
such a description.

Sure there were some small islands,
not a levant among them
more of a turmoil from within,
a spur kicked to sea
their people left to mercy.

But this was no fossil turn
and for that the journey was shallow,
unworthy of Circe's craft
or another oyster shell.
But more would come.

III

When my Father croaked
a last gasp of breath
he was in the death position:
Pound dozed off, one eye closed
one eye deeply, sapphirically blue
remained open.

Eyes looking at the world
eyes looking from the world.

Their journeys crossing
in the night of the day.
That last gasp intrigues,
although we are less like a snail
more of a bird between seasons
flying against the turbulence of the wind,
throwing salt into the air
that can eat away at oil,
absorbing us into the wave
and the depths below.

It seemed like that now -
grave news threatened the West
and all the gentle rocks on two legs
came down with a shudder,
in villages and valleys
well above the sea line.

It was a time that death pondered;
addressing itself with some contempt
a mere chastisement was not enough
there was going to be a sea change
and almost everyone was into it:
at best a new journey was beginning.

IV

When history provides a sacrifice
it's a notch on the time scale.
That you can rant and rave
was for poetry a sacrifice of sorts,
what you left behind in verse
you gave in influence.

The wranglings and communication
of you and Eliot al
were stirrings of a melting pot
that laid to rest the sterility
of Georgian poetry and worse.

But now is a scene of another time
a poet takes the podium as President,
elsewhere broadcasts, such as those
in Rome, are common place.
Now prisoners walk with presidents
or become presidents themselves.

Ever moving closer if not in time
in the scales that cover the body,
leaving the edges exposed
and the whole not covered.
It's a position without design
unlikely to sustain history.

Over on the sea a net was cast
crossing the surface quicker than reflections
but coming back breaking with fish,
so small only the mass stopped escape
their number pressed hard upon them
running off the deck quicker than sea.

V

Will man establish man in this?
Surely not one held on an altar!

Immense times, a bumper harvest
of proportions truly not seen before.
Masses able to go, and to stop,
almost at the click of a finger.
Communication held the key to this.
If there was a time to come
this was it. A void formed.
A powerful platform of opportunity.

Before such an encounter could be joined
masses were regrouping.
And, as with the sea eel, mass was needed
to hold them together.
Without it they slipped away
unable to hold onto anything.

Here Pound came into his own
for one could hear him cry:
Make it New! Make It New!
They ran with great speed at that
like Moses' masses.
Although awe inspiring it was frightening
it could change as with the tide.

What journey was this before us?
It was difficult to read the signs
or choose which direction:
rabbit holes or prehistoric caves
there was a temptation
to imagine it was not happening.

VI

A mere happen-stance
a weakening of the earth's crust,
to explain this more was needed
than simply recitation.

Arrow-sharpeners had arrived
and were needed more than usual,
there was going to be much of this
before the treaties had been signed.

It seemed that blood would out
and if the ground wasn't marked
there was no territory to be had.
Simple stuff to understand
but it made you look over your shoulder
and run for your birth certificate.

In that empty space inside the head
people were running in all directions,
unsure of themselves and their position
it was a hawk to a yard of chickens.

Here was where the journey came unstuck,
floundered on the rocks
tied-up in its own nets of uncertainty,
caught out by the freshness of it all.

The historians slept quietly
and left the commentators to run the show,
people were queuing up to see the spectacle
it was a new style Roman arena.

VII

So to bind themselves they chose
singular steel about their heads and minds,
sweat bands against ideas
each with a palm upstretched, an invisible wall.

No more Rapallos maketh Rome,
ideas bounced around the globe,
the boxed-in new bother boys
from this botched-up world

would see to that, O yes.
Screen-in, screed-out. A new turn
of an old handle of opportunity.

Until the opportunities played-out
leaving an untapped intelligence,
an unstoppable virus
snapping-back, faster than we dare think.

VIII

The old man was nearly played-out too,
too many beatings about his feet
pulling at his waisted gut
expecting him to spin his yarn.

Well there's a whole lot more,
in saying nothing than saying something
you could almost hear him say,
damn right too, you could answer.

What's in an oyster?
Hold it in your hand
and spin it to the sea,
it will not change what's inside.

The rough times, the rough surface
the sweet within, none more lyrical,
try getting a knife in that
you could hurt yourself more than you know.

IX

The world that wouldn't listen
fell silent,
a crack opened-up in the crust
big enough to take us all.

The knife was in position
it had found a soft target,
and everyone opened their mouths
in disbelief.

What now, you could hear them say
as the soothsayers dusted their books
and people polished their mantras.
If so familiar, why such surprise?

Old Uncle Ez knew,
he knew so damn much
he knew he knew nothing
so he became the voice of silence.

X

Tap, tap, anyone there,
as he lay a trail in the dust
and birds that once sung
now choked in the choking fall.

I am the word of the past,
and the past that is
the beginning, the life hereafter.
Amen.

Look me in the eye:
it ain't that bad, really.
Just listen next time, OK.
I said, it's not such a bad place after all.

Go find the nacre in yourself,
as you see in the shimmering surface
him, you, and the world around us:
careful most are chalk, not pearls.

So there you have it. My major work. My homage to Ez. I hope you liked it, or found something within it. If so, please do let me know.

Until next time.....

Who's that with my wife? Why it's Gilbert & George!

It all happened one sultry summer morning...there was I walking my dog along the seabank at Cley, when, there before me, was the totally unmistakable image of Gilbert & George walking towards me. If you know anything about Gilbert & George, you will know that they are 'living sculptures'. Always immaculate, always in suits/shirt/tie - even on a sweltering day in August. So they did kind of stand out.

 

I was thrilled to see them and rushed back to my bookshop/gallery to put some G & G books in the window (what a tart, I am). It worked. The door bell tinged and in they came. Perfect gentlemen they were. We chatted away. They signed the books I had about them. And, better still, they shared their 'Wants List' with me and I was running around like a man possessed to get them their books.

 

What a day; and it got better. We exchanged addresses and in a few weeks we received an invitation to the private view of a show they were having at a new gallery in Milton Keynes, here in the UK. Hence this picture. I'm hoping we may get another invite to their major retrospective this year at the Tate Modern. It promises to be a mega show. So, as I look at the Rubik's Cube I have of G & G and the mobile of their multi images, I remember that day in the back of beyond in Norfolk. I guess you could say that where ever you are, you should always be ready to expect the unexpected!

 

This is a poetry-free entry on the blog, because I want you to get ready for my major work next time. This is what Sebastian Barker, editor of The London Magazine, said about it:

 

"You have steeped yourself so deeply in Pound, you have written something out of his school but very definitely your own. For me, the poem ends on what I repeat is a remarkable note  ... You are saying something which has not been said before and you are saying it about Ezra Pound. This is done by the use of several metaphors which give to airy mysteries a local habitation."

 

Intrigued? I hope so. I will reveal all, next time, for the first time.

 

 

The Play's the thing

I said I would illustrate my diversity in my writing at the time we were in Norfolk, running a bookshop & art gallery. So here goes:

A play that I wrote for a local theatre production company. It is set in the Norfolk landscape, amongst the reed beds of Cley-Next-the-Sea. I called it: 'FLIP and it's ...' but I'm not happy with that title and would sooner call it 'Marshland War'. Whatever it is/was called, the production never went ahead as the production company folded.

So, I'm still waiting for the world premiere, if anyone is interested. Meanwhile, here's a taster:

Setting: Seabank with reeds on lower side

Time: All within the same day

Characters: Reedman; dressed in waders, jeans and old tartan shirt

Two tourists, dressed as such, or as twitchers

Woman; not seen, only heard, singing lamentably, from off-stage


Woman singing: Cutting on the banks of life
(off stage) as they fall the cries of strife.
Here they come and make their mark
in the passages of dark.
You will see and so will I
that this is not the way to die.
Watch with me and cut to quick
the way we learn to see their trick.

Lights-up

Reedman: Oh no, here they come again. (bends down as though ducking from missiles). Over the hill. Here they come. It's always the same. Whether (amongst reeds) they come or go. It's always the same.

I'm here, among the reeds, but I might just as well not be here.

1st tourist: Hang on a minute - look there's a man over there (pointing) cutting the reeds.
(on seabank)

2nd tourist: How d'you know he's cutting the reeds - he could just be hiding?

1st tourist: But you can see the reeds move as he cuts them. Anyway, why else would he be there?

2nd tourist: That could just be the swathe as he walks through the reeds.

1st tourist: But why would he be down there walking through the reeds?

2nd tourist: (excitedly) I reckon he's murdered someone and this is his way of escaping. He's on the run!

1st tourist: Don't be so bloody stupid. There are times when I think you have too much imagination for your own good.

Lights black-out. Shaft of blue light, horizontally. Long note on a flute.

Woman singing: What you see and what you know
doesn't always tell or show.
In the same enduring light
as a passage of the night.
Clowns may come and clowns may go
even in a simple show.
But I will share with you
there is more than just these few.

Lights-up. Reedman on top of the seabank with a bundle of reeds.

Reedman: (in a low voice) What was that? I thought I heard something, what was it. Were they coming again? No. Nothing! It was nothing. That was all it was. Just me. And this.

That's why (pause).

That's why ... (anxiously) I sometimes get so fed-up with this, I could kill the next person that comes along.

Same black-out sequence.

Woman singing: You heard it then, you'll hear it now
the visions that will sap their power.
Each finds a statue at the door
without which there'll be no more.
But as they find their place alone
the journey is for them a tome.

Lights up. Set as at beginning. With just the tourists on the bank.

2nd: You may be right. I've always had too much imagination, but what's wrong with that? I've sometimes had to have more imagination. You wouldn't know. You just wouldn't know. There're times you need it, there're times you don't. (looking around) Apart from which, I see things differently to you. For instance, look at these reeds (points) they have a hypnotic quality. It's the way they move in the wind, gently swaying, noiseless and timeless.

Like fingers (demonstrates) beckoning you forward: "Come here. Come here." It's pure poetry. (pause) And anyway, if you had just gone mad and killed somebody, you might fill like running amok among the reeds. Lashing out and all sorts. Knowing you were seen but hoping nobody would notice. Understanding enough about the area to know that there (points) would be the last place anyone would deliberately look. It's a sacred place. An historic place (points again in an erect, almost a salute, position). HIS PLACE!


I could go on, but I think you've got the flavour of the piece.The place was getting to me - but in a positive way? Well we'll see, because, at the same time, I was writing Pound's Oysters and that was going to turn out to be very important.

Plus Gilbert & George turned-up in our lives. all of that next time.