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.

Now Norfolk ... after London it's Snorfolk!

Quite a change of pace this. We leave London, and the busy world of business, to resettle on the North Norfolk coast and establish a Bookshop and Art Gallery. Everyone's dream, and for a while it was.

 

We were welcomed by the locals, loved by the visitors and, eventually, became a tourist landmark in Cley.

 

For me, I could indulge my joint passions of buying books and pictures. Specifically I topped-up my Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis collections and even got to buy Julian Symons's library with many Lewis first editions, reviews of same and related ephemera. I got to talk through my interests with book people and soon became a bit of a scholar on the subject of Pound (more of that later).

 

Perhaps, at this stage, it would be a good idea to give a few lines from Pound so that you can get a taste of my obsession. Let's start with a few lines from Lustra, one of his early books:

 

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

          Not shaking the grass.

 

Now let's look at some lines of his that I, at one time, wanted on my gravestone:

 

What thou lovest well remains,

             the rest is dross

What thou lovest well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage.

 

And a description of his that grips the meaning & understanding in a way that few writers have been able to equal:

 

When a creative personality falls into their clutches

... like chickens in the shadow of the hawk's wing. 

 

That gives you a feel for what in Pound interests me ... the use of language in a way that cannot, in my opinion, be equaled. Forget the politics of Pound. Forget the prejudices of Pound. Appreciate the man as he always wanted to be: a Poet.

 

For me, my writing was beginning to blossom. It was, at this time, that I started my 10 year Pound epic poem (more of that later) and other works, like plays and another novel. It would be difficult to follow the work of Pound with mine, so, at this stage, I will rest on Pound's laurels. But next time, I will show you my diversity, and tell you how Gilbert & George happened by the bookshop.

 

 

Mother me!

A quick recap: the 1960s, for me, was a period of creative exploration with glimpses of a world of bohemia that lit my imagination. But I blew out the flame and took to a life of business; in advertising initially. Then in Government, which is where I left the last but one blog, where I became the Deputy Head of Communications at the National Economic Development Office. But, sitting in my office on the 33rd floor of the Milbank Tower in London, I still hankered after the writer's life.

A few demons had gathered too, which needed dealing with. As always, I used poetry to take them on. Here's me doing just that, with a poem that was published in the March 1987 edition of Psychopoetica from the University of Hull:

CONFRONTATION

Footsteps on swinging bridges
black below, even dank
like drowning kittens in a sack.

Why, why, why
but my memory would not answer such a thing
so the bank burst and I cried.

In a half waking, half sleeping,
sad interlude I imagined
what I would do if I saw

no, seeing wasn't the word
confronting, admitting, yes blaming.

I tried.

The place was familiar; of today,
modern, existing; no Samuel Beckett this.

Did I knock, or just enter?
It matters little, I was standing
on the carpet
and she was in a bloody wheelchair.

You cheat, I thought
I can't hit you like that.

That worried me, the thought of hitting,
although I needn't have worried long.

From her frail self, all skin,
hanging loose, like Oxfam clothes,
she struck out at me
with a walking stick
the one in the cupboard
the one with the snake's head.

Furious striking, making crosses
criss cross patterns in the air.

They never touched or marked
furious striking to prove a point.

You, you, you: I hate you
it seemed to say
a fair reply
to why, why, why.

I'm glad it wasn't real
not a real confrontation
especially as I wasn't sure
what next.


Having got that out of the way, I joined the International PEN Club, hob nobbed with the likes of Harold Pinter and set about another change of life. To the country dear boy, to pursue country pursuits and bury my head in books. Another rich turn in the mosaic that is/was my life. Come back and see me again, soon.

The giving of life, the taking of life

On 26th June 1992 something significant happened in my life: the birth of what was to become my dearly beloved dog and friend: Todd.

 

Last Monday 4th December 2006 Todd was put to sleep and something left my life that can never be replaced.

 

Whatever I wrote, or created from 1992 was influenced by him being with me and giving total love to me.

 

Now onwards is going to be very different: at the moment it just seems empty. 

 

But it will be full again because I am determined to remember him through what I do with the rest of my life.

 

If I make a mark again, it will be because of Todd, if I become a better person, it will be because of Todd, if I help others, it will be because of Todd.

 

Todd was the life giver and I want to give to life because of his life to me and others.

 

We will never forget Todd and because I know he will always be with me that is why I can be confident that life will be full in the future: with him, through him. Forever.

 

 

To Russia with love

 

To Russia with love

Looking backwards, as I'm doing in this blog, allows you the opportunity to reflect on times in your life that were significant. And there was one such time that I can share with you, and in sharing marvel at the difference between then and now. It was November 9th 1985. Up until this point I had been working very hard at trying to run a business, with some success. We had also been providing for our son's education, with even greater success. At this point he had reached the stage where he had qualified for University and was about to embark on studying for a law degree. The first person in our family to had reached that pinnacle. Clearly we were proud and offered him a gift. He didn't want a gift, as such, he wanted to go to Russia. Delighted with the thought, I went with him too. Naturally I couldn't let the occasion slip by without writing about our experience and what follows is the first part of:

 

A Russian journey of myself and my son Dominic.

 

Started well. On time and grey November weather, enough to want to escape. Nearly didn't. Bomb scare at Gatwick. Checking-in area cleared. But we still managed to leave on time - good old British efficiency. Russia is 3 hours ahead of us. We approached it at around 2.30pm our time and the sky started to go black. From bright sunshine we seemed to be entering the start of a bottomless pit. It got worse. I said to Dominic, jokingly, we are approaching the end of the world. I now look out of the window and it is pitch dark. We haven't landed yet!

 

Touched down at Moscow without problems. So much for our dark entry. First impression, the bare trunks of silver birch stretching out of the earth, tightly packed. In the dark they looked like boney fingers from the old men of the earth.

 

Walking down the steps of the aircraft we see the first visible signs of well known Russia - the fur hats worn by the soldiers. They look so smart!

 

Weather quite tolerable. Dry and rather cold - but no snow. All the early warning signs we were given prepared us for a long haul in the customs area, but not so. After some nifty footwork we managed to get through customs in almost jig time. Then, whilst waiting to transfer to the bus, we could observe our new found surroundings. Generally everything is very clean. People go about their business in an orderly fashion, but the one thing that strikes you is the preponderance of military personnel. They are everywhere. Not that that should worry you, in many respects it is very comforting. Perhaps it's just that it is different!

 

Journey to the hotel was uneventful with less than welcome propaganda talk by the Russian courier. Still, it is interesting to know that Russia is the third most populated country in the world with 270m people, it is called the Soviet Union, not Russia, as it is the Union of 15 separate states of which Russia is but one, and that no one owns a house in Moscow, they all rent from the State.

 

So we started a 7 day trip to Moscow & Leningrad (as it then was) and a diary of that special time which captures every moment of our journey. Here follows some pictures to give you a flavour of Russia in the 1980s.

 

My life, on return, was about to enter another stage. From successful businessman to the dole, from no writing to a resurgence. I even started a play which, on reflection, was probably symptomatic of what was going on in my head. Here's the introduction to it:

 

A play where the characters never touch the floor. Netting, or mesh 'floors', at different levels, make-up the set.

 

The play should try to leave the audience with the feeling of 'unease', or questioning. They may even think the play never existed. Certainly the 'meaning' of the production will be difficult to understand, indeed it is better if it is not understood, ever.

 

The characters speak through voice-boxes, so we never know who they are. This small group of actors should change clothes between each other as often as possible, and similarly swop make-up and props, to confuse identity. Three females, three male make-up the cast. Because they will merge together, they, by definition become ageless.

 

The set is lit with shafts of light that change throughout the play, like Venetian blinds casting light and shade. The positioning and movement of the characters is key to the success of the play, rather like ballet or chess. The characters are nameless, but numbered.

 

This may seem like a meaningless mosaic but out of this I was to climb to new heights, namely the 33rd floor of Milbank Tower in London. More of that next time my life takes another turn.

 

"Terry, what are you doing here ..."

 

 

 

 

Meet the mother-in-law

Not mine, Ezra's. Yes, this is Olivia Shakespear, Dorothy's mother and a fine sketch from that much underrated British twentieth century artist: Wyndham Lewis. OK, I know he upset the establishment but really Nick Serota, isn't it time the Tate did the right thing by this artist, writer, poet and all-round genius. Or are you still carrying Roger Fry's flame, Nick?

This is part of the seed change that I was going through, back in the 1970s. The change from adolescent to entrepreneur. I may had stopped creating in the real sense, but in some respects I was taking on more and doing more. Collecting works of art (like this Wyndham Lewis sketch), buying books and making a difference in the business world.

This entry is going to be different from the rest because it will not end-up with a poem. Indeed this marked the end of my writing for some years. You could say I sold out to commerce but, as you will see later, the output afterwards was better than before. It was like my squirrel-time. During that period I was accepted as an Associate Member of the International P.E.N. Club, became a freeman of the City of London and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. Not bad for someone that left school with no qualifications.

When I return I would have come out of this commercial conclave and entered a new phase where rejection gave me a mixture of good and bad. I shortened Waiting for Godot for my son, collected early editions of Joyce's Ulysses, welcomed Gilbert & George and returned to Pound with more than a pound of Poundian.

Ezra Pound

 

Hello Uncle Ez

I've arrived. In London. Ready to carve out a career. Not true, just playing the game. Truth is, was, I had to bring up a wife and 2 children...and we all know poetry doesn't pay the rent. So, instead, I got as near as I could with advertising. Another untruth. I was still a dreamer, and yet I seemed to drift into the jobs I got. Now, I don't intend to use this blog to tell you of my chequered career. This is a literary based blog. Suffice to say I made it. But at a price. For many years I gave-up writing and concentrated on making a career. But all that time my creative wellspring was filling-up, ready to cultivate a new spring.

Along the way I picked-up Ezra Pound. Not exclusively, my literary taste was, and is, wide. Why Ez? Well he is a giant and his influence touched many people. I then looked at those people and the journey began.

I started this blog with the first stanza of a poem about Ez, I will end it with the complete poem. But right now let me drop in a piece of juvenilia that was published in the international poetry magazine, CORE:

Looking back to Pound

Eye corners, eye corners
always eye corners.

Now, just as then, askance
at usurers and usury.

Gone banker to right from drudgery
or bog eyed stupefier.

Just a botched civilisation
gone in the touch

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.

He became an important part of my life. He still is. I've been where he lived, where he is buried, where he was feted. I think I have most of the books by him and most of those about him. And yet I only know what I can learn by studying him. That's what fascinates me about him. To know him is to know so much and I am still scratching the surface. Will I ever reach the summit; unlikely. But the effort is worth it because it shows us a great deal about the human condition and our condition.

Meanwhile another poem from that time that was short listed for a prize:

ANNUNCIATION

Into the field, every day
a man walks into the field.

Tell me why, there's a man
in the field tell me why?

Messages to bring, each day
he's got messages to bring.

Who sends them, the messages
he carries who sends them?

People they say, thoughts
from the people they say.

None from us, he carries
thoughts but none from us.

Like to know, the people's
thoughts I'd like to know.

Never ask it, what bones
their deeds never ask it.

Let us leave, we have seen
and know now let us leave.

He'll be back, we can watch
when we need to he'll be back.

So an ad man, a father, an erstwhile poet soon to swing the cape of good fortune across many years. Where will it leave me then? I'll tell you next time.

Bye David, bye George, hello real world

Difficult to let go, there was so much creative activity. We were working on a new lit mag called The London Bay of Pigs, GPS was dashing back & forwards to the US to try and get money to keep Proudstage (his creative 'factory') going. We gave a Sound and Image presentation of David's book WITHDRAWAL at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London. The book then gets British Film Institute backing for filming. But it was difficult to keep the creative mercury together.

By this time we had 2 children and our first house in the country (Hertfordshire) and I was on the career ladder. But I didn't let go without trying real hard to be a writer as well as a bread winner. I even wrote a play inspired by one of the people I worked with in an ad agency in London. Called MORNING ISSUE, it was a parody of everyday living set against the clown-like comedy of life. I can see now that I was looking to the future.

Perhaps this too was a mixed-up scene setter for what was to come. Called THE ROOM (an idea for a film) it went on to be published twice and appear in a poetry anthology later:

The general light upon the eyes
blessed Madonna, freedom of slaves.

Room - curtains open; dark,
small, close pressing upon ...
table, coffin, dead man in a chair,
an armchair - face pale, bones broken
a feast of feeding flies
cuckoo claws his shoulder.

Woman - arranging cups and glasses
icing the beer, combing the hair
on the head of a dead man
sitting in a chair - an armchair.

Boy - handsome with white legs
wearing blue shorts and shirt
strokes his hair, blond hair
bounces on the dead man's knee.

Criss-cross the arms of men
dancing on a parrot's swing
drinking beer, fondling girls
asking for a loan, echoing a cry
all together in a room
knocking on the walls
listening to the dead man.


As you can tell, I'm doing all I can to push to one side the real world that I keep alluding too. So much better to let the poet speak. But I will tell you about life in a suburban situation and about London ad land. Because, although I left my poetic garb to one side for some years, I took-up a rich galaxy of literary luminaries, if only as an audience looking on, instead of sharing the limelight. Next time I'll bring-in Mr. Pound, for it is he that ultimately replaced George et al - in a way I think George and David would be pleased to have moved over for the mighty man, although I am fast approaching the year when Ezra Pound died and I started my first real business. It's that word again: real. What is it:

On the rim of the mind:
running as fast as backwards
the steel band that clamps the mind
that saves us from splintering
- just gets a little tighter.


Get behind me Muse ... I'm about to catch the 8.15 to London.

David Chapman

 

Son of a Book

For those that have been following this blog, I mentioned my son and the fact that I had given the name of my first novel as his second name. Even better, he went on to give that name to his son. So whatever happens to my novel, the name will live on.

That's the good news. The rest is not history because it is not yet finished and thus far it has been turned down by one publisher. Nevertheless the name is great and I live in hope. Meanwhile here's an outline of the novel that I wrote about 40 years ago:


Outline of the novel:

MALEO

This work is concerned with the present state of the individual. Maleo, a young fortunate man, cannot except the future. To him the future is unlikely to exist. His reasons for this belief are simple. Power of his thoughts and actions have outstripped his natural 'religious' being.

In Maleo's room the pattern on the wallpaper assumes another guise, that of Maleo's all-powerful consciousness. Maleo sits and awaits his demise. A death carried out by himself although he is unable to stop it - the power of his consciousness being such that it is able to carry on without him. He tries to avoid his death by continuing the inane practice of the present man. Minute attention to all things in order that they can be explained. Series of objects to be overcome before we have lived. As the momentum gathers strength and he is quite ready to accept death, Maleo collapses. A moth seen so minutely that it becomes a source of terror, causes him to faint.

Whilst in a state of collapse he dreams or senses certain fables, myths and well-known scenes pertaining to Love, Creation, Normality and Death. From this he continues in unconsciousness to dream through stories of simple-life and earthly pleasures. The last part of his collapse deals with the powers of death persuading him to give up hope and find release in death. At this point the main connecting points of normal life have been quasi-experienced. When he regains consciousness all previous happenings are forgotten. He moves with pain, as does a new-born baby beginning to grow. Maleo examines most of the objects in the room, but, unlike the first part, his analysis is fairly normal. Now, in the restrained state, he is just about able to except the prospect of leaving his room.

The final part deals with his first meeting with a shop-keeper, and the anti-climax when he is smartly rebuffed. However, as the dictatorial power of his consciousness is now completely exhausted, he is able to accept this failure without any overt feelings. We assume he can continue existing.


You can see why I didn't read it as a bedtime story. Nevertheless a name worth remembering (it is a megapode bird, inhabiting Sulawesi, that goes around building mounds). And one day, perhaps I'll finish the story and he will come through it victorious as he, they, are doing in real life.

Talking of real, I'll return to what happened next, in my next episode.

Things ain't what they used to be!

Before I reached the stage of marriage and a more settled life I had been through a few years of difficulty. Suffice to say there appeared to be no way out of this abyss, so a solution was suggested that was 'prescribed' in those days. It sort of worked out although it was hell getting through it. Coincidentally, I was working at the time at an ad agency that had, as its client, the pharmaceutical company that brought this about, so I was able to check out the efficacy of the treatment being prescribed.

 

I am being cagey about this, you 'll understand why in a minute. What took place was a one-off, I never had the need again. Naturally I wrote a poem about it, which I share with you:

 

 

God my head collapsed to bones

with LSD

Life was more terrible

with LSD

Mother and Father screamed at me

with LSD

Tears and wet bed

with LSD

Hundreds of dragons devouring each other

with LSD

My mind expanding to the heavens

with LSD

People after me to eat my carcass

with LSD

I wanted to leave humanity and be alone

with LSD

All crushed and powdered me

with LSD

The world seemed more restless

without LSD

My mind more muddled and tortured

without LSD

I could see the world more clearly

and horribly in my perspective when

I asked for more LSD.

 

But now, with that behind me, life was taking a different turn. More prolific in terms of the writing I was producing, but as an outpouring rather than fully crafted work (that came later). Work got more serious too (and more lucrative). I was at a cross roads and everything was coming at me pretty fast. In the next few entries on this blog I will play catch-as-catch-can with a whole host of influences over a 20 year period.

 

 

Paperback writer

 

So, there I am, in the mid sixties, early twenties, married. Are you following this?

 

Perhaps I should explain the circumstances: working in an ad agency, lowly paid, my wife also working (in a bank) but not for long (because our first baby is due, almost immediately after we get married). I still have connections with my bohemian/writer friends, but not quite so often. Conventionality is taking over.

 

We live in a rented flat in Islington in London. The flat is large and on the ground floor, the landlady is old, frightened and living on the top floor - we get on like a house on fire! I try to live a dual existence: normality in the day, writing at night. I say goodnight to my dear wife at a normal goodnight time and then retreat to the lounge where there is an old wooden desk at which I assign my thoughts, my feelings, my poems in the dead of night. Until I stagger to bed in  the middle of the night and then get up in the morning, trying to be ready to do another day's work. Those nights in the oily dark with just a desk light to keep me company were character building. Most new wives would have complained like hell, but not mine.  NO you are talking here about a woman who bought me the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary for my twenty first birthday, who was prepared to indulge my every whim. I have already said that she was my White Goddess and as this story unfolds you will see the majesty of her being in what I was, and still am, able to do.

 

As a further taster, and as progression within my poetic life, here is a poem that was published in The Hillingdon Writer (Hillingdon is a small suburb, just outside London) as the 'poem that leads the way.'

 

 

Of the lame-foot shepherd

he prayed:

across his mountains

through the streams and rocks

where many times he lay and rested

the sheep roamed without master.

 

Through decades

hours, lines, winds, fallen thorns

clear eyes to see the mist;

ability to catch his sheep.

 

He thought of the boy

and how he had lost the sheep

Go, said the shepherd

You cannot know the hills.

 

How am I to judge

whether the rock is mine

or I the rock - lame-foot?

 

 

That was in the Winter of 65. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a nomadic existence, and still Pound was to rear his godly head. There is much to come, but each episode must be a point of the cross, for me and thee.

 

Be patient; I am living out my life and each cupboard is a landing on the spiral of life.

My White Goddess

So let me take you to be a guest at our wedding. The wedding where my poet/friend read the poem that I prepared for the occasion. But, first, let me introduce you to: The White Goddess. That muse that Robert Graves gave us to in his book of the same name. That muse that is the Mother of All Living, the ancient power of fright and lust - the female spider or the queen-bee. Or, in poetry, the reader over your shoulder. In other words an alter ego, another being, a spirit that is above you. And, believing all that, as I do, let me give you our wedding poem, the one that I wrote, but the one I believe she ordained. It is beautiful, it is mysterious, it is the space that occupies the sheet of water that is:

Nyanza:

when the hand of a plant
feeds on water edge,
lifting dark lotus leaves
feeling the weight upon soft
embryon and pitless eyes -
scarred skin breathes.

Each leaf becomes a plant
where it feeds and moves
across the root of being:
from the strength of stem
to the soul of veins.

Waves penetrate the depth
of green flesh and water,
sent on the drift of birth
from stream and fertile life.

II

Down into the hollow angels
the feeling limbs delve
and contain a struggle
from island's fossiled sea:

broken stems no fortitude
but the rising lotus leaves
over eye that forms the surface
its points of shining beauty.

Arc spreads its span
upon root and downward seed
to feed the living denizen
embellish green upon green.

III

Growth the line continued
black marches of singularity
where break of pattern
envisage loss to death.

Erase the weight of water
day rides upon that hand
as light touches movement
within the calyx of man:

open corolla to take sun
upon the pistil and stamen
where feeling is bled free
to sustain the pith within.

IV

How many worn creatures
evaporate the air, unable
to condense platitude and
envisage spanse omnipotence?

Crimson heads now are still
quiet upon the waterless rock
where face they see a shine
and union becomes their shrine;

but NO Nyanza becomes once more
the sheet of waiting water
containing all the virile life
so soon to adopt a golden lake
and all the earth around the sea
a singularity for moments shared.


And so we began a life together that has survived and will survive to, and beyond, this day. Perhaps, because, the invitation to the wedding said:

Join the blood with the seed
mark the skin with new water
enrich two souls as of one;
wherein the truth will lie.