To coincide with the unveiling of a new statue in Leamington Spa early this spring, I have been commissioned to write a poem on the history of circus elephants in Leamington Spa.
I was amazed by the idea that Leamington and elephants were somehow linked, and at first couldn't see an easy way into the poem. But now that I've done some research, and let those ideas and images stew away in the back of my head for the past few weeks, the possibility of a poem is beginning to take shape.
Back in the Victorian era, circus elephants were kept in Leamington by the famous elephant trainer Sam Lockhurst (born Leamington, 1850). A special slipway - nicknamed Elephant Walk - was even built to allow the huge animals to be bathed in the river. You can find out more at this site, detailing the history of Leamington Spa.
It's always hard to get from commission to final poem, but there are so many exciting elements to this particular idea that it's been difficult to settle on a single theme. Hopefully it will now take its final shape in my head and be written over the next few weeks.
Once the commissioned poem has been read at the unveiling ceremony, I shall probably be posting it on this blog for everyone to read.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Friday, 11 January 2008
Raw Edge Magazine: Funding Cut
The Arts Council Cuts Funding to Vital Local Writing Magazine
This week, I received the following email from Dave Reeves, editor of Raw Edge, one of only a very small number of literary magazines operating in the West Midlands area. I decided to reproduce it on the Warwick Laureate blog, as his letter highlights a worrying trend in Arts Council cuts to poetry ventures, projects and journals not only in our own region, but across the whole of England.Raw Edge is an important magazine. It encourages and features new writing in the West Midlands. Without a magazine like Raw Edge, some evolving local writers might go unpublished and fail to see their work develop as a result. My own work has featured there, as well as promotional material about online resources I administer like Poets on Fire, distributing vital information about the site to the people who need it.
It's inconceivable to me that ACE should have taken this decision to withdraw funding from such a crucial local publishing outlet, especially in the knowledge that it will now be forced to fold.
16000 copies of Raw Edge are distributed free, twice a year, through libraries and arts centres in the region. For details of subscription mailing service, you can send a stamped addressed envelope to Raw Edge Magazine POBox 4867, Birmingham B3 3HD.
I do hope you can support this appeal for help by emailing Adrian Johnson on this issue - adrian.johnson@artscouncil.org.uk - and immediately, before the deadline closes.
Jane
*
Dear subscriber, supporter of Raw Edge Magazine,
Re: Arts Council funding cuts
As some of you will already know, Raw Edge Magazine has been informed by Arts Council England that it will no longer receive funding for publication of the magazine. As this takes effect immediately there is currently no money available for a further issue.
We are allowed an appeal which we have to submit by 15 January 2008, but it has been suggested by Arts Council England that this is kept ‘brief and concise’. As some of these proposed cuts will be reversed, and that such decisions will be taken on the strength of the appeal submissions and the support that the funded organisations are seen to receive, we are asking all of our supporters, subscribers and users of our services to register their support for Raw Edge Magazine with Arts Council England.
We would be grateful if you could send a letter or email as soon as possible in which you might, for example, detail why you have found the magazine of importance as a reader/writer; what value you have found in its articles about writing in the region; how useful the Network section is as a first stop for information and as a round-up of the diverse literary scene in the region; plus any personal stories of the use it has been to you as an individual. Responses should be addressed to Adrian Johnson, Literature Officer, 82 Granville Street , Birmingham B1 2LH or email adrian.johnson@artscouncil.org.uk
We know that these submissions are being read and that they will make a difference both to our own chances of survival and, in the longer term, to the resources allocated to an under funded literature and spoken word community which can be seen to be pulling together and speaking collectively.
Can I take this opportunity to extend my thanks for your support over the years. I will keep you informed of outcomes but this may take some time due to the financial implications for us. In the meantime keep an eye on www.rawedgemagazine.co.uk for any updates.
All best wishes,
Dave Reeves
Editor, Raw Edge Magazine.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Poem for Christmas
A Warwickshire Christmas
Black seam of tarmac glittering hard
with ice, a million points of light,
and our loud boots cracking over it,
tramping to church down country lanes
starred white with frost
or to shops, brilliant with tinsel,
to buy gifts for the infant,
holly for the wise, and head home,
arm in arm, under velvet skies.
Children go about red-cheeked
in the wind, wild as robins.
The sick, in their hospital beds,
fumble for cheer which comes hard,
suddenly rich with angels
and fruitcake for Christmas.
Chill streets ring with boots and bells
and far-off voices raised in song
for those born and dying.
And that boy in the doorway
is no longer a shadow as the carol passes,
telling of peace and Bethlehem,
fire and ice and mulled wine.
They’re lit up by starlight, those we ignore
in the dark of winter, the outcast
and frightened, the sick and the poor.
Shops close. A star is rising.
Pin up your holly and open the door.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Friday, 7 December 2007
Some Quick Tips for Writing Poems
Recently, I've been asked to produce a few tips on 'How To Write Poetry'.
That's another social role for a Poet Laureate: spreading the word about poetry as widely as possible. It's rather like being an ambassador (though without the posh dinners, perhaps fortunately for my waistline) where what I say reflects on poetry as a whole. So I always try to give the same good advice I was given as a beginner.
1. Be yourself.
2. Keep things simple.
3. Rewrite everything.
4. Speak your poem aloud as you write.
5. Make sure the line-breaks fall where you either pause naturally or for emphasis.
6. Only write about things that really matter to you.
Over the next month or maybe longer, I'll be trying a series of online workshop exercises at my other blog, Raw Light, chiefly aimed at those with some experience of writing poetry but who are perhaps still unpublished in book form.
If you'd like to try your hand at a poetry exercise or two over there, I'd be happy to discuss the results with you.
Don't forget, you can still send poems to me here or leave them in the Comment box below, for possible future publication on this blog.
That's another social role for a Poet Laureate: spreading the word about poetry as widely as possible. It's rather like being an ambassador (though without the posh dinners, perhaps fortunately for my waistline) where what I say reflects on poetry as a whole. So I always try to give the same good advice I was given as a beginner.
1. Be yourself.
2. Keep things simple.
3. Rewrite everything.
4. Speak your poem aloud as you write.
5. Make sure the line-breaks fall where you either pause naturally or for emphasis.
6. Only write about things that really matter to you.
Over the next month or maybe longer, I'll be trying a series of online workshop exercises at my other blog, Raw Light, chiefly aimed at those with some experience of writing poetry but who are perhaps still unpublished in book form.
If you'd like to try your hand at a poetry exercise or two over there, I'd be happy to discuss the results with you.
Don't forget, you can still send poems to me here or leave them in the Comment box below, for possible future publication on this blog.
What does it mean to be Poet Laureate?
People often ask me: 'What does it mean to be Poet Laureate?'
Usually they want to know what I'll be doing as the new Laureate for Warwick. But sometimes they're interested in how I see the role of a Poet Laureate, why I put my work forward to be considered in the first place.
The two answers are connected. As a Poet Laureate, one of my responsibilities over the next year is to produce poetry about the region and to encourage others to do the same. And that's how I see the role of a Laureate. I see it very much as a social role, someone who acts as a mediator between the people and poetry. Which is what attracted me to the post.
I see the Laureateship as a good way to introduce new people to poetry, and to use poetry to help people. That can be a therapeutic help, encouraging people to write about their problems and so perhaps come to terms with those problems a little better. Or it can be about fun and creativity, getting adults back in touch with what some might call their 'inner child'!
The Laureateship is also about giving added emphasis to poetry on the National Curriculum, by going into schools for workshops or by helping kids with poetry and performance during poetry-related activities outside school.
Usually they want to know what I'll be doing as the new Laureate for Warwick. But sometimes they're interested in how I see the role of a Poet Laureate, why I put my work forward to be considered in the first place.
The two answers are connected. As a Poet Laureate, one of my responsibilities over the next year is to produce poetry about the region and to encourage others to do the same. And that's how I see the role of a Laureate. I see it very much as a social role, someone who acts as a mediator between the people and poetry. Which is what attracted me to the post.
I see the Laureateship as a good way to introduce new people to poetry, and to use poetry to help people. That can be a therapeutic help, encouraging people to write about their problems and so perhaps come to terms with those problems a little better. Or it can be about fun and creativity, getting adults back in touch with what some might call their 'inner child'!
The Laureateship is also about giving added emphasis to poetry on the National Curriculum, by going into schools for workshops or by helping kids with poetry and performance during poetry-related activities outside school.
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Poem for Rugby Market, Warwickshire
Below is a short poem called 'Where Two Roads Meet'. It's about Rugby Market, and was specially commissioned by The Rugby Times newspaper, around the time I was appointed Warwick Poet Laureate.
Not being the sort of poet who writes much about urban life - though I often write about rural spaces, and either imaginary or past places - I found this commission quite a challenge at first. However, I live on the outskirts of Rugby, so I went into the town and wandered about for an hour or so, talking to people and looking for inspiration for this first poem.
Eventually I sat down with a coffee near the regular open-air market and realised that I had found my subject. With its colourful stalls and bustle of shoppers, a street market is a natural source of inspiration for any writer. And this particular market, so steeped in the history of the town - indeed the entire region - was clearly perfect as a vehicle for tracing local and historical development in Rugby.
After making copious notes on what I'd seen in the market, I headed off to Rugby Library and checked out some local history books. From my research, it was soon apparent that the market was the original heart of the town, the vital 'seed' from which the earliest settlements at Rugby grew.
Back in the Middle Ages, a lone trader must have stopped at this busy Midlands crossroads and set up his stall, thinking it a good spot to do business. Other traders stopped, and eventually stayed, and soon there would have been a thriving village based around the little market at the crossroads, which grew into a town, its importance as a trading place growing and changing with the centuries.
Later, a large cattle market was established further down the hill, a clock tower was built at the crossroads, stone-built shops sprang up around the stalls, the low-roofed 'Shambles' were built, and over time the market and its surrounding town grew into the modern Rugby we know today.
It was a fascinating background story, and one which I really wanted to address in my first ever 'official' poem about Rugby. But I also wanted to write about contemporary Rugby, the hustle and bustle of the market today.
I threw out some of my original notes as useless and went through several wildly differing drafts. I looked at old photographs for further inspiration, and played around with rhymes and my usual eccentric scansion. I knew the poem needed to be quite simple in form and content, for a general readership, but I also wanted it to reflect my interest in the origins of things, in local history and how it shapes our lives today.
This is how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it.
*
Where Two Roads Meet
(for Rugby Market)
Where two roads meet, a man set up
his cart. Where the primrose
and the dog rose used to flower,
they built a market and a clock tower.
Soon, women in white petticoats sold
flowers and sweets, and men
in cloth caps drove carts and cattle
through the cobbled streets.
Today, two roads still meet
at the market awnings, striped
and neat, above the shouts
for bargain books and fresh-cut meat,
for shoes, potatoes and chrysanths,
for coconuts and underpants,
with stall-holders in caps and jeans,
and traffic choking up the streets
where Rugby past and present meet.
First published in The Rugby Times, September 2007
Not being the sort of poet who writes much about urban life - though I often write about rural spaces, and either imaginary or past places - I found this commission quite a challenge at first. However, I live on the outskirts of Rugby, so I went into the town and wandered about for an hour or so, talking to people and looking for inspiration for this first poem.
Eventually I sat down with a coffee near the regular open-air market and realised that I had found my subject. With its colourful stalls and bustle of shoppers, a street market is a natural source of inspiration for any writer. And this particular market, so steeped in the history of the town - indeed the entire region - was clearly perfect as a vehicle for tracing local and historical development in Rugby.
After making copious notes on what I'd seen in the market, I headed off to Rugby Library and checked out some local history books. From my research, it was soon apparent that the market was the original heart of the town, the vital 'seed' from which the earliest settlements at Rugby grew.
Back in the Middle Ages, a lone trader must have stopped at this busy Midlands crossroads and set up his stall, thinking it a good spot to do business. Other traders stopped, and eventually stayed, and soon there would have been a thriving village based around the little market at the crossroads, which grew into a town, its importance as a trading place growing and changing with the centuries.
Later, a large cattle market was established further down the hill, a clock tower was built at the crossroads, stone-built shops sprang up around the stalls, the low-roofed 'Shambles' were built, and over time the market and its surrounding town grew into the modern Rugby we know today.
It was a fascinating background story, and one which I really wanted to address in my first ever 'official' poem about Rugby. But I also wanted to write about contemporary Rugby, the hustle and bustle of the market today.
I threw out some of my original notes as useless and went through several wildly differing drafts. I looked at old photographs for further inspiration, and played around with rhymes and my usual eccentric scansion. I knew the poem needed to be quite simple in form and content, for a general readership, but I also wanted it to reflect my interest in the origins of things, in local history and how it shapes our lives today.
This is how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it.
*
Where Two Roads Meet
(for Rugby Market)
Where two roads meet, a man set up
his cart. Where the primrose
and the dog rose used to flower,
they built a market and a clock tower.
Soon, women in white petticoats sold
flowers and sweets, and men
in cloth caps drove carts and cattle
through the cobbled streets.
Today, two roads still meet
at the market awnings, striped
and neat, above the shouts
for bargain books and fresh-cut meat,
for shoes, potatoes and chrysanths,
for coconuts and underpants,
with stall-holders in caps and jeans,
and traffic choking up the streets
where Rugby past and present meet.
First published in The Rugby Times, September 2007
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Remembrance Sunday
As we reach Remembrance Sunday and set aside time to remember those who have so bravely given their lives for peace and freedom, I thought it might be a good idea to feature a local 'War Poet' on this blog.
After much research, I finally chose Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915), who was born in Rugby, Warwickshire, and is probably best-known for his patriotic poem The Soldier, which begins:
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.
For this Remembrance Sunday, however, I decided to feature a different poem by Rupert Brooke. This complex fourteen-liner on the theme of death, following the form of a sonnet broken into two stanzas, an octet and concluding sestet, is called 'Clouds'.
Clouds
Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.
They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.
Rupert Brooke
To find Rupert Brooke poems on the topic of war, you can visit www.theotherpages.org or read about Brooke and other literary figures of Warwickshire here.
After much research, I finally chose Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915), who was born in Rugby, Warwickshire, and is probably best-known for his patriotic poem The Soldier, which begins:
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.
For this Remembrance Sunday, however, I decided to feature a different poem by Rupert Brooke. This complex fourteen-liner on the theme of death, following the form of a sonnet broken into two stanzas, an octet and concluding sestet, is called 'Clouds'.
Clouds
Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.
They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.
Rupert Brooke
To find Rupert Brooke poems on the topic of war, you can visit www.theotherpages.org or read about Brooke and other literary figures of Warwickshire here.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Send Me a Poem
If you are the sort who scribbles, secretly or otherwise, and you have a poem you'd like to share with the other readers of this blog, please do email it to me here at j.holland442 @ btinternet.com or send it by post via the contacts section of the Warwick Words Festival website.
Poems related to Warwick or Warwickshire are particularly welcome, but not necessary. Please note that there may be special themes at certain times of the year, so check recent posts before sending. This invitation is mainly directed towards Warwickshire residents, but poets further afield can send work too, especially if they have a Warwickshire connection.
If you are under the age of 18, please let me know your age when sending the poem. I would prefer poems to arrive as normal text in the body of an email, but can accept Word attachments.
N.B. I will read all your poems and try to respond to everyone personally, but I'm afraid I cannot guarantee publication!
Poems related to Warwick or Warwickshire are particularly welcome, but not necessary. Please note that there may be special themes at certain times of the year, so check recent posts before sending. This invitation is mainly directed towards Warwickshire residents, but poets further afield can send work too, especially if they have a Warwickshire connection.
If you are under the age of 18, please let me know your age when sending the poem. I would prefer poems to arrive as normal text in the body of an email, but can accept Word attachments.
N.B. I will read all your poems and try to respond to everyone personally, but I'm afraid I cannot guarantee publication!
Oneiromancy
One of my winning poems from the Warwick Laureateship Poetry Competition 2007:
ONEIROMANCY*
To dream of death signifies fear
of the unknown. Dandelions
speak of a lover’s
infidelities. Towers and steeples
are signs of ill omen.
To avoid nightmare, sleep
with a stone under your pillow.
The ring-tailed dove
must not be crossed with the crow,
or harm approaches.
To see rivers in flood
means death by drowning, and roses
financial ruin. Anything blue
is an excellent omen
for childbirth. Pearls bring sickness.
Opals, relief.
Falling from a high place
indicates a stranger’s treachery
and carrying milk
a desire fulfilled. But to dream
of milk spilt
is to suffer love unrequited.
*Oneiromancy: to predict the future through dreams. The new requirement of the Warwick competition this year was to send four poems, one of which had to be inspired by this year's National Poetry Day theme of 'Dreams'.
ONEIROMANCY*
To dream of death signifies fear
of the unknown. Dandelions
speak of a lover’s
infidelities. Towers and steeples
are signs of ill omen.
To avoid nightmare, sleep
with a stone under your pillow.
The ring-tailed dove
must not be crossed with the crow,
or harm approaches.
To see rivers in flood
means death by drowning, and roses
financial ruin. Anything blue
is an excellent omen
for childbirth. Pearls bring sickness.
Opals, relief.
Falling from a high place
indicates a stranger’s treachery
and carrying milk
a desire fulfilled. But to dream
of milk spilt
is to suffer love unrequited.
*Oneiromancy: to predict the future through dreams. The new requirement of the Warwick competition this year was to send four poems, one of which had to be inspired by this year's National Poetry Day theme of 'Dreams'.
Daddy-Long-Legs
One of my winning poems from the Warwick Laureateship Poetry Competition 2007:
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
Mid-September, and crane flies
are everywhere, haunting my kitchen
with delicate legs splayed
like a parachutist’s, gripping the air.
Soon my house is alive with shadows, black
under the bulb’s glare. These
are the terrifying Daddy-Long-Legs
of my childhood, an insect
straight out of the mind’s dark spaces,
insubstantial bodies
caught in my hair, delirious in flight
against the light’s tremor
or perched long-legged on a whitewashed wall,
tiny Buddhas deep in prayer.
I fasten windows, lock all the doors,
yet still that pitched flight,
vibrato of wings, is audible
until, quite suddenly, October thickens
and they disappear.
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
Mid-September, and crane flies
are everywhere, haunting my kitchen
with delicate legs splayed
like a parachutist’s, gripping the air.
Soon my house is alive with shadows, black
under the bulb’s glare. These
are the terrifying Daddy-Long-Legs
of my childhood, an insect
straight out of the mind’s dark spaces,
insubstantial bodies
caught in my hair, delirious in flight
against the light’s tremor
or perched long-legged on a whitewashed wall,
tiny Buddhas deep in prayer.
I fasten windows, lock all the doors,
yet still that pitched flight,
vibrato of wings, is audible
until, quite suddenly, October thickens
and they disappear.
Builders
One of my winning poems from the Warwick Laureateship Poetry Competition 2007:
BUILDERS
Another one goes higher, climbing up that ladder
like a monkey: screwdriver, hammer, wrench
tucked neatly in his belt. His mates follow,
leaving their cloudy fingerprints
on plate-glass. This is their world,
high above our ant-eye level.
We scuttle underneath with cups of tea,
leave them steaming on planks
or pass them through open windows.
They lean against the scaffolding
at half past ten, unhurried, rolling smokes.
Later, the backs of their necks will redden
as they pull the flashing from the roof
(the youngest often stripping to the waist).
The sun is in my eyes; refracting light
into a fleet of curving poles,
this structure almost seems to bend,
a tree-house circumnavigating stone.
I watch them come first thing, unload their van
and swing up into clouds.
Each day we hear them through our walls
like mice in the skirting-boards
or scratching at the roof, bird claws
hooking onto lead. Their voices rumble
in the chimney-breast, hammer us
a slant of sky through glass
until we’re living under occupation.
BUILDERS
Another one goes higher, climbing up that ladder
like a monkey: screwdriver, hammer, wrench
tucked neatly in his belt. His mates follow,
leaving their cloudy fingerprints
on plate-glass. This is their world,
high above our ant-eye level.
We scuttle underneath with cups of tea,
leave them steaming on planks
or pass them through open windows.
They lean against the scaffolding
at half past ten, unhurried, rolling smokes.
Later, the backs of their necks will redden
as they pull the flashing from the roof
(the youngest often stripping to the waist).
The sun is in my eyes; refracting light
into a fleet of curving poles,
this structure almost seems to bend,
a tree-house circumnavigating stone.
I watch them come first thing, unload their van
and swing up into clouds.
Each day we hear them through our walls
like mice in the skirting-boards
or scratching at the roof, bird claws
hooking onto lead. Their voices rumble
in the chimney-breast, hammer us
a slant of sky through glass
until we’re living under occupation.
Troika
One of my winning poems from the Warwick Laureateship Poetry Competition 2007:
TROIKA
She comes up through the yard
at dusk, sturdy in boots
and thick fisherman’s jumper.
You stop work immediately,
smiling and combing lank hair
with your fingers.
Moments later, light streams
from an upstairs window.
The wind’s only a thin hiss
across darkening fields
but my camper rocks gently,
ringing its tiny bells
like some displaced troika.
Inside, I dream of snow
and cannon fire; pour myself
a cup of vodka
that sears even as it blurs.
Outside is like the first dark,
familiar as the first hurt.
I’m used to its deep velvet lagoons
and swim of wet tarmac,
its absence of love,
my road ahead the white trick
of a travelling moon.
TROIKA
She comes up through the yard
at dusk, sturdy in boots
and thick fisherman’s jumper.
You stop work immediately,
smiling and combing lank hair
with your fingers.
Moments later, light streams
from an upstairs window.
The wind’s only a thin hiss
across darkening fields
but my camper rocks gently,
ringing its tiny bells
like some displaced troika.
Inside, I dream of snow
and cannon fire; pour myself
a cup of vodka
that sears even as it blurs.
Outside is like the first dark,
familiar as the first hurt.
I’m used to its deep velvet lagoons
and swim of wet tarmac,
its absence of love,
my road ahead the white trick
of a travelling moon.
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Spooky Poems for Halloween
Here's a poem for Halloween from Warwick's past, attributed to the Elizabethan poet and courtier I'm in the process of researching, Lord Brooke Fulke Greville:
In night when colors all to black are cast,
Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;
The eye a watch to inward senses placed,
Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,
Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,
Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,
Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,
Doth forge and raise impossibility:
Such as in thick depriving darknesses,
Proper reflections of the error be,
And images of self-confusednesses,
Which hurt imaginations only see;
And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,
Which but expressions be of inward evils.
*
And above are my three youngest children celebrating Halloween last year. Little devils, perhaps, but not 'evil', like the spirits conjured up by Fulke Greville's poem!
My older children were brought up in the Isle of Man, where they always celebrated Hop-tu-naa (Hop Choo Nay) at Halloween, carrying hollowed-out turnips or pumpkins with candles inside as lanterns and singing a traditional Hop-tu-naa song. Some people believe this descends from a type of ancient New Year celebration rather than being linked to the US-style 'trick-or-treating'. Whatever the truth, these old rural practices are certainly good material for poems!
This is a very short and spooky poem I wrote a few years ago, imagining someone who was half-man, half-nocturnal creature:
Whose Hands Were Made of Velvet
He held up his hands
and they were the place of dreams.
Inside each hairy palm, small softnesses of bats
took root, clinging
with astonished intelligent feet
to a skin-space
sweeter than milk.
*
Have you ever written a poem for Halloween, or perhaps on a spooky or supernatural theme? Do please email it to me for publication on this blog or - if it's short enough - leave it below as a Comment.
In night when colors all to black are cast,
Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;
The eye a watch to inward senses placed,
Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,
Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,
Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,
Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,
Doth forge and raise impossibility:
Such as in thick depriving darknesses,
Proper reflections of the error be,
And images of self-confusednesses,
Which hurt imaginations only see;
And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,
Which but expressions be of inward evils.
*
And above are my three youngest children celebrating Halloween last year. Little devils, perhaps, but not 'evil', like the spirits conjured up by Fulke Greville's poem!
My older children were brought up in the Isle of Man, where they always celebrated Hop-tu-naa (Hop Choo Nay) at Halloween, carrying hollowed-out turnips or pumpkins with candles inside as lanterns and singing a traditional Hop-tu-naa song. Some people believe this descends from a type of ancient New Year celebration rather than being linked to the US-style 'trick-or-treating'. Whatever the truth, these old rural practices are certainly good material for poems!
This is a very short and spooky poem I wrote a few years ago, imagining someone who was half-man, half-nocturnal creature:
Whose Hands Were Made of Velvet
He held up his hands
and they were the place of dreams.
Inside each hairy palm, small softnesses of bats
took root, clinging
with astonished intelligent feet
to a skin-space
sweeter than milk.
*
Have you ever written a poem for Halloween, or perhaps on a spooky or supernatural theme? Do please email it to me for publication on this blog or - if it's short enough - leave it below as a Comment.
Monday, 29 October 2007
Sir Fulke Greville: first poet-in-residence at Warwick?
In my quest to write poems about Warwick, I've been investigating the history of the town. Amongst other fascinating things I've turned up - the recent Mop fairs, for instance! - is the fact that one of the earliest Lords of Warwick Castle was Sir Fulke Greville (1554 - 1628), an Elizabethan courtier-poet and statesman.
Most famous for his close friendship with the poet Philip Sidney, Greville was born in Warwickshire and attended Shrewsbury School. Later, as a royal courtier, he was made 1st Baron Lord Brooke by James I. This was in recognition of his services to the crown, particularly in the Treasury.
Now a peer of the realm, Fulke Greville was also granted Warwick Castle.
He made substantial improvements to the Castle, allegedly amounting to some £20,000 - a vast sum in those days! It became his pet project, and he was still working on the renovations when he died in 1628, attacked by a disgruntled servant.
The most fascinating part of this story, for me at least, is that Sir Fulke Greville was clearly the first poet-in-residence at Warwick!
A member of the élite literary group, the 'Areopagus', along with the likes of Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Edward Dyer, Greville was a poet of high seriousness, keen to import classical metre into English verse, which he presumably saw as lagging behind the rest of European literature in the wake of the Italian Renaissance.
Influenced by the Italian poet Petrarch and his beautiful sonnets of unrequited love, Fulke Greville himself wrote sonnets as well as longer poems on difficult political and moral themes. A great intellectual, many of his poems have been criticised for being too obscure!
When his friend Sir Philip Sidney died on military campaign in the Netherlands, Greville famously wrote his biography, commemorating the greater poet's life and work.
*
So that's the story of our first ever poet-in-residence at Warwick!
Over the coming months, I'm going to investigate Fulke Greville more closely, and hopefully some new poems of my own will come out of that investigation. Perhaps even a sonnet or two!
First of all, a fact-finding trip to Warwick Castle needs to be planned. Meanwhile, you can find out more about Sir Fulke Greville here on Wikipedia.
Most famous for his close friendship with the poet Philip Sidney, Greville was born in Warwickshire and attended Shrewsbury School. Later, as a royal courtier, he was made 1st Baron Lord Brooke by James I. This was in recognition of his services to the crown, particularly in the Treasury.
Now a peer of the realm, Fulke Greville was also granted Warwick Castle.
He made substantial improvements to the Castle, allegedly amounting to some £20,000 - a vast sum in those days! It became his pet project, and he was still working on the renovations when he died in 1628, attacked by a disgruntled servant.
The most fascinating part of this story, for me at least, is that Sir Fulke Greville was clearly the first poet-in-residence at Warwick!
A member of the élite literary group, the 'Areopagus', along with the likes of Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Edward Dyer, Greville was a poet of high seriousness, keen to import classical metre into English verse, which he presumably saw as lagging behind the rest of European literature in the wake of the Italian Renaissance.
Influenced by the Italian poet Petrarch and his beautiful sonnets of unrequited love, Fulke Greville himself wrote sonnets as well as longer poems on difficult political and moral themes. A great intellectual, many of his poems have been criticised for being too obscure!
When his friend Sir Philip Sidney died on military campaign in the Netherlands, Greville famously wrote his biography, commemorating the greater poet's life and work.
*
So that's the story of our first ever poet-in-residence at Warwick!
Over the coming months, I'm going to investigate Fulke Greville more closely, and hopefully some new poems of my own will come out of that investigation. Perhaps even a sonnet or two!
First of all, a fact-finding trip to Warwick Castle needs to be planned. Meanwhile, you can find out more about Sir Fulke Greville here on Wikipedia.
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