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.