Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Poem a Day for a Year

Announcing a new blog, inspired by my grown-up son's request for suggestions of what poems to read, but also possibly of interest to others.

A day by day poem seemed a good way to introduce some favourites, both contemporary and past poets, also a sort of crash course in Eng. Lit.(poetry written in the English language, so not limited to the UK, and possibly a few translations into English from other languages) without the academic analyzing that can kill a love of poetry. (If you want more background, or want to read more poems by that poet, I hope it will encourage you to explore further by yourself.)

The selection varies between contemporary living poets, (or recently deceased) and a random jumping back and forth to poets in 'the canon' (a debatable term, I know), who seem to me, Must Know. No chronological ordering, and no logic, other than that the poem selected might be a complete contrast in style or sensibility to the one preceding it. The selection is random, as they occur to me.

Often my adult students confess to not having read poetry since they were at school since they were put off it by how it was taught, or they have been made to feel that poetry is a crossword puzzle that has to be solved. In particular 'Modern' poetry is loathed, even though unread and shunned, for fear they will not 'get' it, and a disgruntled belief that their love of rhyme and rhythm is somehow out of date and suspect.

What is clear, is that many people I talk to tell me they loved poetry... once upon a time ...and can quote by heart many poems they were forced to learn (and are now happy that they were), before the dreaded teaching for passing exams started, and they were turned off poetry.

So this blog is not about 'analyzing' poetry, but experiencing it. See

Friday, 18 November 2011

Fight for Libraries' Campaign

A Fight for London Libraries' campaign is planning a day of activity in February, probably on the 4th, National Library Day.

The events are still under discussion but plans mooted are a march, possibly to Downing Street, and a read-in outside the Department of Culture, Media and Sport.

Maybe you should get your camping gear ready. The anti-greedy bankers sit-in outside St Paul's has started a trend.

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Libraries' closure ruled illegal

At last some good news. Library closures in Somerset and Gloucestershire have been ruled illegal, because of the counties' duty to comply with 'public sector equality duties' towards vulnerable social groups. A hopeful sign that more libraries will be saved across the country?

Monday, 22 August 2011

Makkin wi Wirds, with Fiddles attached, 2011

Jen Hadfield (third from left) leads Busta House Renga

This year, the highlight workshop was the communal Renga which we started at Busta House Hotel - a 16th c laird's house with a sad haunted past and now swish present. But the Renga is still in progress, via email, so I'll blog about that when it's finished.

Thanks to Creative Scotland (as the revamped Scottish Arts Council is called) who gave me another grant, the second one running, to attend Makkin wi Wirds (part of Fiddle Frenzy) poetry writing course, I am now amassing enough poems for a pamphlet...and building on my first collection.

But poetry workshops are not the only draw to Fiddle Frenzy (see previous two years' blogs)- there's the fiddle concerts every night with Aly Bain and Phil Cunningham returning as the mega stars. Trips round Shetland, some needed fresh air and more experiences which might result in poems - this year to Ollaberry and an exhibition inspired by 'Extreme Wave Theory' by 'foul weather artist' Janette Kerr in Bonhoga art gallery in Weisdale Mill - dramatic evocations of storms in black and white based on real experiences. It seems the artist has sailed in high seas with fishermen - rather like Turner who had himself tied to a mast to experience a storm. The charcoal sketch books interested me most, but then I always like artists' sketch books rather than finished works.

A trip to the Cunningsburgh agricultural shows meant thousands of photos of Shetland ponies for me. I'll just post one to give you an idea of their size.

Shetland pony at Cunningburgh Show

If you like, there is the opportunity to attend taster workshops in the other subjects on offer: Shetland knitting or painting and sketching,apart from fiddling at all levels and guitar, of course.

Early morning rehearsal for last night student concert.

And it's not all work. Here's one of the ceildhes: note walking boots!

Ceildhe at Clickiminn Leisure Centre

You'd think I might be bored by Shetland on my third visit but no. I can see why some of the Frenzied (as in those on the Fiddle course) return year after year - some for 7 of the 8 years it's been running. There is still so much to discover on Shetland, Jen's workshops continue to be special, but this year there was the extra bonus of seeing familiar faces and now getting to know Shetland through the eyes of the locals, visiting some in their homes.

And an unexpected surprise: the apparition of a creature from another world in Aith harbour. S, fellow poet and I were chatting, getting some fresh air not in the least looking for it. A dog otter I'd say, (going by the stuffed one in Hay Dock museum)- big as a small dog- maybe four foot including the tail. His large head (almost as big as a seal's)surfaced and he regarded us curiously for several minutes - not long enough for me to get my camera out) before diving with a flourish, then he was gone. We stared all around for some time, knowing they can swim some way before popping up again, but no, that had been our moment. A gift from the pagan gods - or maybe a pagan god himself. And my second otter sighting this trip.

For my blog on last year's Makkin course, see

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Unst, Ultima Thule, part 2

After St Kilda, I arrived in Shetland a week before Makkin wi Wirds, Jen Hadfield's poetry writing course,  to explore areas only touched on before on previous visits. After a helpful fine tuning of my MS in progress by Jen, in a pre-course mentoring session, I drove up to Unst, via road and island-hopping by two ferries, for a week's self-imposed writer's retreat, including writing up notes for poems, and maybe, new ones inspired by Unst: another Ultima Thule. It seems I can't get enough of them.

Unst is the most northerly of the inhabited islands of the UK - though the most northerly land is not Mukkle Flugga (Big Rock) and its lighthouse (built by one of RL Stevenson's relatives) as many people think, but a rock, a bit further on, called Out Stack. My aim was to take a boat trip round the two of them but on arrival in Shetland the fog descended. All I saw of the drive up and Unst for three days was fog. So I haunted the Heritage Museum and Boat Haven museum, both fascinating.

Boat Haven Museum

I also went swimming in the splendid Leisure Centre and warmed up with hot chocolate in the Chocolate Experience cafe which was packed. Every other tourist having had the same idea as me. Life in Unst is not so Ultima Thule as one might suppose.

The Chocolate experience.

Yes, that is a copy of Joanne Harris' 'Chocolat'. What luck for Joanne Harris as a marketing ploy. Perhaps I should give up writing poetry - or maybe write poetry about chocolate.

On the Thursday, a foggy start but there were rumours it might lift and so I drove out to the Herma Ness Bird Reserve and former lighthouse shore station for Mukkle Flugga, now containing a museum,(including delightful bird sketches). Below this is the wee harbour where the boat, if it went, would set off from.

The first boat trip was cancelled but I put my name down for a second mid-morning. By then the harbour was visible but further out to sea down the sea-loch all was fog. 'We'll set off,' said the skipper, 'and see what happens by the headland. If it's still foggy, we'll turn back and you have your money back. How's that?'

Fog, fog, drizzle:
the surprise of blue.

This is my contribution to a communal Renga which I was later to write on Jen's course. More of that later. The surprise blue was the miracle that occurred on this boat trip. By the time we reached the headland of Saxa Vord, its radar were visible (the former RAF station)and we were out in blue, blue seas and clear skies: Lighthouse shining in the sun. Thousands of comical puffins, dipping, shaking their heads, floundered on the surface trying to get airborne (their bones, like guillemots and other divers are heavier than other sea-birds, so that they can dive) and then up into the air in great swirls along the cliffs and down into the sea again. We were lucky. The puffins have usually left by end of July- and we were in the last week of July.

Puffin at Sumburgh Head.

Sad to learn (at a visit to the bird reserve on Sumburgh Head before setting off for Unst) that they did not breed this year - due to a shortage of sand-eels in April and May from the too cold sea then. It is thought that the changing climate due to global warming may be the cause. Now in July there were enough sand-eels for the adults. Let's hope things improve next year or puffins will be in danger of becoming extinct.

At Herma Ness the convoluted cliffs are far more interesting viewed from the sea and one can see caves not visible from above if walking along the top and this way we avoided being attacked on the boggy moors of Herma Ness by the nesting bonxies, (great skuas) or maybe the trolls, lying in wait under bridges, like in the Billy Goat Gruff tale.

Moors of Herma Ness Bird Reserve: is that a troll?

But the bonxies, brown menaces, can be seen hunting in pairs, one harrying and driving a beautiful gannet into the path of a waiting bonxie. Bonxies are known to drag gannets by their wing tips down into the sea to drown them. I am beginning to hate them.

Thousands and thousands of gannets with their six-foot wing span, rather like swans or geese, but with yellow necks, and black tips to their wings, glide above. It is a much better view of the bird life than I had on my St Kildan trip, to be honest. There I let the two teenage lads monopolize the binoculars, and I didn't have a pair myself. Also, I realize, the mast and sail, obscured some of our view of the birds. But I wouldn't have missed that trip for the world (q.v. earlier blog).

Gannets near Mukkle Flugga

Mukkle Flugga, Unst

The wind was southerly. The next day a northerly was due, the skipper said, and it would be too dangerous to round Mukkle Flugga and Out Stack with the great swells that would occur. That must be quite something. They were pretty rough on our trip as we headed north of MF and round Out Stack. But we did it!

After the trip the boatmen invited us to a hut on shore for a cup of tea - most welcome. But when most of the day-trippers had left, the boatmen opened a cupboard in a corner for their 'stress relief'. No prizes for guessing what the cupboard contained.

Another must I was determined to see was an otter. But these are elusive beasts. On previous visits to Shetland, I'd had no luck. On Unst, the remote landscape and continual news of sightings, must surely be the place I would have an encounter. One of the boatmen on the MF trip recommended a certain bay. There was a pool just inland from the shore. I'd been told the otters need to rinse the salt out of their fur and come ashore to bathe in fresh water every evening. I chose early evening and sat for an hour or so, keeping still, writing with occasional glances up. No luck.

'Oh, yes' said a girl I chatted to on another beach as she walked her dog,' I see them almost every evening about 5pm crossing the road here.' Again, nothing.

Finally whilst chatting to the lady (dressed up as a Viking matron)who was showing me round the replica 9th c Viking ship, I asked her advice. I had heard that the loch where the boat is, was a good spot. 'Yes,' she said and pointed out at the loch:'Look'.
And there they were, two bodies, entwining with eachother, over and under, one smaller than the other. The males can attack the young, the woman said knowledgeably, so it had to be mother and baby. One swam to the shore and I even managed a photo - though only of the adult - not a high standard of photography. Still, a memory for me.

Otter sighting

Then down to Lerwick for the start of the Makkin/Fiddle Frenzy course.

St Kilda, July, 2011

Much has been written about the St Kildans, the 'bird' people- they ate the gannets and used their carcases for slippers, ate fulmars and used the fulmar oil to light their lamps, drank as an expectorant,or to rub on bruises. The feathers they exported via the Factor, sent by their Laird (Lord Dunvegan in the Isle of Skye), to stuff mattresses. When synthetic fabrics killed this trade, the villagers' days were numbered and they finally asked to be evacuated in 1930.

52 miles from the nearest landfall of the Outer Hebrides, St Kilda is an archipelago N/W of Scotland, out in the middle of nowhere (or on the way to the Faroes, depending on how you look at it). A remote community, first inhabited in the Bronze Age, then later by Irish hermits: it is on the edge of the world, an Ultima Thule, even perhaps a myth, like Atlantis.

I had been reading up about St Kilda for the last two years, and have already written a few poems inspired by the place and its history. Last winter, I attended a film showing organized by the National Trust for Scotland and learnt about the Puffin Club for those who have stayed a night on the main island, Hiorta, or at least moored in the bay. A friend of mine, K visited with her late husband when they learnt he had a cancer and this is where they chose to go as a special, last trip together. But more and more, the desire to visit a place I was obsessed with seemed an imperative. Yet who was to say that poems from the imagination might not be better than those which came out of the experience?

I wasn't sure if I'd get to St Kilda though. The yacht company I was hoping to sail with, 'Beyond the Blue Horizon', won't guarantee it. The weather is so unpredictable - it's the wind that matters, it seems, not so much the rain. If it's an easterly the yacht won't even attempt it as it's impossible to anchor in the bay. I had hoped to go late May or June but unseasonable gales put paid to that. And the Met Office website only gives 5 days' weather forecast in advance. So I waited till the last minute - a gamble since there might have been no vacancies left on the flight to Stornoway, let alone the yacht.

But luck was with me. I even got a double bunk to myself since there were 7 guests in the 4 double bunk guest cabins. A 5 day, 4 night trip on a 67 foot steel cutter, the Elinca, which I highly recommend. We were in experienced, steady hands with Angus Smith and son, Innes, our skipper and crew, who were charming hosts- our first day down Lewis in the Minches, via the Shiants, whose name means 'Enchanted Isles' in Gaelic, (owned by Adam Nicholson who wrote 'Sea Room' about them) blue skies, calm seas but no wind. We motored the whole way to anchor round the tip of Harris at Leverburgh. Drinks on deck watching the sunset and delicious organic, local food: poached salmon. What's not to like?

Angus, the Skipper, drinks, sun over the yard arm, on board the Elinca at Leverbugh, Harris.

The next morning was a Force 4 and choppy, 'short' waves, i.e. the distance between each wave so short a rolling, up and down, side to side, corkscrew motion which resulted in two of our members retching for the 7 and a half hour sailing. Luckily I was OK, wearing wrist bands which work on acupuncture pressure points and Traveleeze to make sure (two tricks learnt on the Fair Isle crossing last year). But the fog came down. On a clear day, Angus told me, St Kilda is visible from at least half way across the 52 mile trip from Leverburgh. So, just a little boring, 7 and a half hours of staring at fog, and looking out where the horizon might be(not down, or queasiness would follow)so no reading possible. However, I fell into a trance-like, meditative torpor and it's amazing what thoughts come in that state. I know I solved the world's problems. Pity I can't remember now what great wisdom was revealed to me.

On arrival at St Kilda (Hiorta, the main island) all we saw was a shadow and the base of Oisebhal (pron.Oisheval), to the east of Village Bay. Anchored for the night in Village Bay, the boat rocked from side to side (not up and down as well, luckily), with gurgles and bumps all night, and I had disturbing dreams.

The morning was brilliant though: blue skies and seas.

Me, Dun in background.

First view climbing up on deck was of the jagged silhouette of Dun (pronounced Dune), like two prehistoric monsters, one mounting the other, round to the open sea and a solitary island in the distance, Levenish, back round in a semi-circle to Hiorta - this semi-circle all that remains of a volcanic crater. Village Bay itself was a bit of an anticlimax - perhaps I have seen so many photos of it, there was no shock of the new.

Nor is it pretty, with the clutter of 'cleits'- 1400 of them (the stone 'fridges' as a Stornoway fisherman put it), where the villagers air-dried the gannets and fulmars to eat over the winter. Mankind seems to have a propensity to litter the landscape with excrescences, however practical they might have been. Then the mountains of Conachair and Oiseabhal did not look that high - though I knew that Conachair is the highest sea-cliff in Britain at 1400 feet (430 m), somehow they were not imposing.

Village from Bay

First, we sailed, luckily there was enough wind, to the stacks which are four miles to the east of the main island. The villagers (Hiortaich) made this journey to catch the gannets and I could imagine what an achievement that was in row boats, and to see the almost inaccessible sides - no ledges to act as jettys, and it made me realize their courage as the great swell would have thrust the boats perilously close to being smashed against the base of the rock as they leapt onto the rock.

Stac Li, Stac an Armin and some of Borerey

Stac Li (pronounced Lee) 564 feet/172 m high

The sheer scale of the stacks themselves, Stac Li, like a shield and Stac an Armin, more of a triangle from one view, and rugged, larger Boreray, bursting vertically straight out of the sea, did look more impressive than the cliffs of Hiorta, but even so, it was hard to appreciate that they are higher than the Empire State Building. Nothing to give a sense of perspective.

Stac an Armin

Thousands and thousands of gannets, fulmars, puffins, is an awesome sight though. On approach, white dots filled the skies, like motes before your eyes. Swathes of puffins flew by,or scooted over the surface of the water, fulmars glided by the halyards, and high above our mast the stately, outstretched wings of the gannets, like a pattern of white crosses, not quite touching, patterned the blue.

As we sailed between the two outer stacks and Boreray the swell grew, with the backswash in an alarming way and the jagged rock seemed to rise and fall. We were lucky it was relatively calm - easy to see why this trip would be too dangerous in rougher waters. Surprisingly I could not smell the guano and only hear a faint cacophony of birds - this must have been because of the direction of the wind, or the noise our sails made? I had read in Martin Martin's 17th c account of his voyage that the sea was white with guano - again I did not see this.

Circumnavigating Boreray

The rocks themselves are white from the birds (and guano) on the ledges, organized in distinct levels (rather like the tenements of 16th c Edinburgh's Royal Mile where the rich had the top apartments, ranging down to the poorest at the bottom.) Here gannets ruled the top ledges, then fulmars in the middle, puffins nesting in burrows in the grassy ledges(on Boreray) with the black, snake-headed cormorants on the rocks at the base.

The Stacks, Li, An Armin and Boreray

In the afternoon, we went ashore to the village - in a motor-powered inflatable dinghy since boats are not allowed to moor by the jetty, for fear of rats jumping ship. (I'm pretty sure there were none on Elinca but the NTS make no exceptions.) The indigenous species must be protected at all costs: we saw the wonderful, enormous wrens, big as sparrows, which hopped about unconcernedly on the ruined cottages instead of hiding between stones as they do elsewhere (Troglodites, their Latin name means cave-dwellers)and there's the famous St Kildan large field mouse (which I did not see.).);the ubiquitous, many coloured Soay sheep have been there since the Bronze Age and their genes never mixed with other breeds. Their wool peels off naturally, so the Hiortach had no need to shear them, only 'pluck' them - and a few wandered around in this semi-dressed state.

Soay dreadlocks

I talked to Jill who was there from a university (I forget which) studying the Soay but was sad to learn that she is briefed not to help in any way if the sheep are in difficulty. The academics are there to observe the sheep in their natural state. If they overbreed, many lambs die in harsh winters, and so a natural balance is maintained, it seems.

We explored the chapel and school room - part of the same building connected by a door - quite clear how the Minister ruled over everyone. The row of books on the shelf all Bibles. No getting away here. Even the view from the school room window was claustrophobic - of the steep sided mountain covered in cleits -no sky.

View from School-room window.

We then walked down the 'Street' - the one and only one, with 6 of the cottages now re-roofed and conserved by the National Trust for Scotland, lived in by the volunteers in the summer, then down past the ruined more modern Victorian ones, next door to the earlier bothy-like ones (actually more practical, the rounded sides deflecting the winds)which the villagers put their cattle in when they moved out to the newer houses.

The Street

I pondered on the hard life they led - the same as any other village in the Highlands, no doubt, except that the men, at least, had the excitement of abseiling the cliffs to catch the gannets. The women were literally beasts of burden, carrying all the heavy loads, as well as looking after the cattle (when they still had them) and the domestic chores. Strangely, the men sewed all the clothes.

Dun from ruined cottage

I felt claustrophobic imagining living in this tight, little community. People imagine they were 'away from it all'- but they were remote only geographically. Here, they were very much, part of the community with all its stresses and strains, however egalitarian it was in the early days, when everything was shared between them and debated between them (the famous St Kildan 'Parliament'- of men only, but the women had their own group too, led by a 'Queen'.)

Small-pox and tetanus (the latter causing the 'eight-day' death amongst infants), decimated their numbers, until only women, mainly old and a few childen, and a handful of old men were left- many of the young men having emigrated, lured by the glamour of Glasgow. Latterly, a too strict minister who imposed hours of services on them and prevented their crofting and time to look after their livestock, and the corrupting influence of tourists on Victorian steamers...there are many reasons for the decline of their society. It makes fascinating reading and there are many parallels with the fate of ethnic tribes in the so-called undeveloped world.

Stone of house number and family who lived here.

There is much debate nowadays between those who want to keep Hiorta (St Kilda) pure, untrammelled by man, and deplore the ugly buildings of the army and MOD barracks and who romanticize the previous inhabitants' way of life. On the otherhand, there are those who say St Kilda must adapt -there are interesting comments on the Ranger's website, c/o the National Trust for Scotland, on all these issues.

Personally, as I queued in the former Factor's House, now Ranger's house and shop with a crowd of visitors who had suddenly arrived on the motorboat day-trip, to buy a St Kildan drying-up cloth, I asked myself what the hell I was doing? Hadn't I come to St Kilda to get away from commercialism? Still, the NTS must raise funds, one way or another. The Ranger looked as if he'd far rather be out on a cliff counting the birds.

Myself and others in our group climbed up to the 'gap' between Conachair and Oisebhal to view the stacks from the top of the cliffs. There was no need to climb to the top of either mountain for the view, thank goodness, since I was not up to it. We were there about 5-6 hours - but not long enough to walk over to Gleann Mor -full of bonxies nesting, so probably a blessing.

On the way to the 'gap', cleit and Dun beyond.

Another night in Village Bay- then back to the mainland. This time, St Kilda and the stacks on view behind us for half the journey and then Harris ahead. No wonder the early Irish monks could navigate - not sailing into the unknown, so much as island-hopping.

On the way back, we saw the floppy dorsal fin of a sunfish (drifted over on the Gulf Stream from the Caribbean), and in the Minches, porpoises, even the elusive Minke whale which surfaces and sinks so quickly it is easy to miss, and above the cliffs two sea-eagles with their white rumps. Our last night, dinner on deck was in a remote, gneiss sea-loch, with dark green water, no sound except water lapping somewhere in Lewis - I'm not telling you where, and as we ate oat cakes with Stornoway smoked salmon on cream cheese sprinkled with black pepper, and even more special, we saw two golden eagles.

The trip of a life-time. I feel very privileged, especially when Angus tells me some of his guests have booked Elinca several consecutive years before actually reaching St Kilda. Yes, the voyage across was ghastly. But worth it to see this special, mystical archipelago. (There I go.) Somehow more enticing in anticipation and in recollection than in reality. Isn't that the way with dreams?

Leaving St Kilda. View of the Stacks.

As we sailed away in calmer waters, St Kilda was visible until half way across, as Angus had said. I watched till it was no more than a shadow, then a blur then so indistinct that you would not see it unless you knew it had been there, all the time thinking of those last emigrants and what they must have felt. Some only too glad to get away. Others filled with grief. We noticed in the grave-yard, some more recent graves. Emigrants who had asked to have their remains brought back and interred there.

Lots and lots of memories which will result in poetry, I hope- inspired not so much by the mystical aspect, I suspect, but the lives of the people...but the awe-inspiring experience of thousands, and thousands of gannets and fulmars on the stacks will surely be in there somewhere. for info and photos but book through co-organization: for the NTS site and Ranger's journal

Sunday, 29 May 2011

Sense of Place Renga at Botanics


Being the end of term session of my Sense of Place course, why not a sociable, collaborative Renga - linked haiku-like stanzas and since rain might not be far away, we took shelter in the Temperate Palm House, a 19th c magnificent conservatory in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Some even ventured out into the gardens, braving potential fall-out of volcanic ash.

I can't say we followed a very strict interpretation of Renga - we kept to the spring/early summer season we are in and used the direct experience of the place. And I ducked out of the role of Renga Master - much more interesting for the students to take it in turns to organize and reorganize the resulting sequences and savour the differing results.

It was fun and maybe we reached a zen place. The soup and rolls in the cafe were good too.
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Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Save our Libraries protest rumbles on

Over in Moy, Northern Ireland, visiting relatives, the first thing I noticed driving into the town was this depressing appeal to 'Save our Library' in letters blocking the window panes.
A typical scenario - small town with much loved library catering to those without cars who cannot drive miles away to the big library they intend to save in Dungannon, and in fact, which the council has spent a fortune revamping. Great. But now it seems, this is at the cost of all the little surrounding satellite town libraries.

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Brendan Kennelly's 75th

Happy birthday to Brendan Kennelly who is 75 this year.

My favourite poet, former lecturer at Trinity College Dublin and first mentor. The force be with him for many more years of beautiful, sometimes controversial and moving poetry and his naughty sense of humour.

Listen to his melodious voice on the poetry archive

Monday, 16 May 2011

Tree Books and a Matsuri in the Hidden Gardens, Glasgow

Xylotheque, a library of trees, attached by wire, rather like the books in the Bodleian attached by chains. Each book contains a sliver of wood from one of the native Scottish trees. This charming installation is to be found under the seats of a special shelter in the Hidden Gardens, Glasgow - a shelter especially created for poetry recitals, in particular Japanese haiku.

Hidden Gardens, the Tramway, Glasgow

It rained. Of course, it rained. It was Glasgow in spring. But it was only a light pattering in the birch, branches swaying. The sound of an occasional train hooting and swooshing by and the jingle of an ice-cream van now and then to remind us we were not in the Highlands hidden in a birch forest with waterfalls and perhaps a loch glimpsed through the leaves but in a transformed area beside the converted Tramway.

We stood by the wooden xylotheque structure, mentioned above. Enough room for a few people to shelter whilst the rest of us dripped under umbrellas or hoods. We were there to hear a series of haiku composed by Alec Finlay and Ken Cockburn on a commemorative trip they made around Scotland last year, to honour the trip Basho made many centuries ago in his 'The Narrow Road to the Deep North' in Japan. Fuji might be represented by a similarly iconic Scottish mountain, a famous view in Japan represented by another here, or personal incidents echoed here such as a poem about glimpsing Boreray, one of the St Kildan archipelago which they never visited to parallel an island similarly glimpsed but never reached by Basho.

Larry Butler, Angus Reid, Colin Will and others had also contributed haiku from their visits throughout the year and the results were read along with Ken and Alec's, the whole event started atmospherically by the lilting Eriskay Love Song sung beautifully in Gaelic by Margaret Bennett.

Margaret Bennett

Alec Finlay, Mr Masataka Tarahara, Consul General for Japan, and his wife and Ken Cockburn(reading)

One of the highlights for me was the contribution made by the Consul General for Japan in Edinburgh, Mr Masataka Tarahara, who came over for the event. He explained how there are many affinities between Scotland and Japan: love of mountains and lakes/lochs, also both countires have four seasons and many, many ruined castles. He then proceeded to sing a haunting song in Japanese. The theme was that castles have their day of splendour and then fall into decay - as do humans! Ah, that old theme.

After the reading, people were encouraged to compose their own haiku inspired by the setting, write them on labels and tie them to the tree. Ken told me often the ink fades and only the labels are left, then they too eventually deteriorate and return to nature. Biodegradable, so not litter then.

To read the poems, see
and Ken's blog:

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Oxford Blackwells: book-banging horse-scaring

Paul, the Blackwell's guide in Mr Blackwell's 19th c. office.

No visit to Oxford is complete without a visit to Blackwells, truly the best bookshop I have ever been in - especially the fact that they have the latest poetry books as soon as they're published and even on display at the till desk. As Dickens said, Blackwells is 'the literary man's house of call.'

So Hub and I, having spent rather a lot of time there already on previous days, had just popped in, yet again, as you do, to fill in the last half-hour before we had to dash to catch the train back home, when we were inveigled by the charming Paul, guide to the Blackwells' tour. Why not? (We'd only buy more books if left unsupervised for half an hour.)
The very spot we were standing in (the few feet at the entrance) used to be the original bookshop, at 50, Broad Street,founded in 1879. Considering the massive operation Blackwells is today, it was amusing to contemplate the 14 square feet which was the available floor space between the piles of books of those early beginnings. If more than one or two customers entered at one time, the apprentice had to exit by the back door and hover there.
The apprentice had 'to undertake not to contract marriage, gamble with cards, haunt taverns or playhouses'. So the White Horse pub next door was out of bounds. Fred Hanks, one of the earliest apprentices was presented to Mr Blackwell by his mother: 'I hope he'll be a good boy,' she said. He stayed for twenty years. One of his duties, incidentally, was babysitting Basil Blackwell.
Then as today, 'university students in the afternoons did Athletics, took a walk, or went to Mr Blackwell's in the Broad.' Its philosophy, as today, is summed up in: 'We browsed at leisure and no one came to disturb you.' The only disturbances in the early days might be the book-banging on the pavements outside, where books were cleared of dust, thus frightening the hansom cab horses.
Blackwells went on to publish poetry by Robert Graves, Auden, C.S. Lewis and Spender, children's books by A.A.Milne and Walter de la Mare. Later Blackwell founded the Shakespeare Head Press.
Upstairs, Paul took us to the first-floor office of Mr Blackwell, and explained that his editorial assistant was one L. Sayers. He 'admired her witty mind, with reservations', which indicates she was better suited to her career as Dorothy L. Sayers, the crime writer. Her office is now part of the cafe.(The bit that has a fire-place and has the feel of a 19th c room.)
I won't spoil Paul's tour by recounting all his stories. You'll have to go for yourself. Highly recommended.
And a P.S. from Paul - he also does tours of Oxford in the summer months.

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

StAnza 2011: Artist's Books, Roncadoro Press

One of the highlights of the StAnza festival this year for me was discovering the wonderful Roncadoro Press. Initially I was attracted to their stall at the pamphlet fair, as I wanted to buy my friend, Jean Atkin's latest book. And what a find! This is a lovely book, with moving poems, full of the sound of the wind and sea, by Jean, inspired by her Shetlandic ancestry, of sailors and shipwrecks, hardship and emigration, with evocative, atmospheric illustrations by Hugh Bryden, who runs Roncadoro Press.

Jean's book, 'Lost at Sea', is available in three editions: a paperback printed version, a hard-back printed version and a case-bound edition, of the original artwork, a collage with Japanese hand-made paper scrunched to suggest the wild Shetland seas. Above is a single, framed page from this book, part of an exhibition of the Press's other Artist's Books in the Preservation Trust Museum.

As you'll see, each book is different but Hugh's interest is in graphic design, whether woodcuts (reminiscent of Masreel) or fine pencil. All 'Black and White', as the exhibition was called. Not all are 'books'. Some are fold-out one poem paper concertinas.

So far, the poets in his 'stable' are Andrew Forster, Hugh McMillan, Rab Wilson, as well as Jean Atkin.

For further info on Roncadora Press, see

Thursday, 3 February 2011

Libraries or incubators for the newborn? Have we come to this?

Public Libraries. Ahh. Saturday mornings,
when our Dad took us down to change our books - and we always came away laden with the full quota. Once I'd grown out of the(at that time in the 50s and 60s)limited children's section, I was unsure what to read. Green/e seemed a good place to start, being my own surname and so in this rather haphazard way I worked my way through the entire canon of Graham Greene and Henry Green. How they coloured my (green) world view for years: a mixture of Greene's Catholic guilt in exotic Third World countries with Green's exotic, louche , world-weary cocktail party society. As a 13 year old with no experience of any world other than a convent-school, it was certainly a revelation. (Not that I had any understanding that affaires amoureuses were going on in the latter.) But I had entered a grown-up world of sensibilities, complicated half-inarticulate emotions,that spoke to my own adolescent loneliness - perhaps I was not so alone. And what an introduction to style: Greene's page-turning pace and Green's elliptical, minimalist dialogue.

With my father in the forces, and a new posting every three years, there was no way he was going to transport boxfulls of books every move. So Dad's shelves were limited to mainly factual books -a leather-bound Encyclopaedia was prominent. I am aware this itself is a luxury to many working-class homes where no books at all is the norm. In these days of the internet, perhaps homes no longer need encyclopaedias in book form? But facts are not enough.

How about the awakening of the imagination, fostering of understanding and empathy with other people? (If you want to understand emotional relationships, read novels). But in our Dad's defence, I must add that having married a French woman (after divorce from my Mum) he developped his knowledge of French by reading the sort of novel he might have read in English -mostly war novels such as by Ernest Hemingway. (He was a military man but a sentimentalist.) So, of course, I read them too. To this day if you mention 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' I go a bit blank until I realize, ah, you mean 'Pour Qui Sonne le Glas.' But a handful of books was not going to last the summer hols. Thank G for the public library.

At Mum's she had a collection of books she had hauled around with her from move to move so I was fortunate - I worked through one or two novels by Virginia Woolf, Rebecca West, Rosamund Lehmann at just the right age of 15/16: but even Mum could only transport her very favourite books at each move (another story). Thank G for the public library...
without which I doubt I'd have made it to university.
And so on..
I'm told our house is known as 'the second hand book store' by our son's school mates when they visited - since you have to squeeze sideways down the corridors inbetween the bookshelves, and every room has that slightly musty smell of old paperbacks...but even in a house of writers like ourselves, there are more books we want to read, far more than we can possibly afford to buy, or have space to it's back to the public library.

And what about people who were not fortunate enough to be born into a home full of books? Or cannot afford any books, let alone more books?

I can't help noticing that the libraries proposed for closure seem to be those in rural areas with a scattered, scant population (not many votes there then) or in socially deprived urban areas (they don't need 'culture' then/probably don't use their vote?)

What are public libraries for? To make money, to be self-funding, to create a work-force that will accept the lowest pay and longest hours for the highest profits for their capitalist masters? I think not. OK. So I've set my stall out and need go no further.

I think the most appalling justifications I've read this week about the proposed library closures are those of one Oxfordshire councillor in responses to Philip Pullman's brilliant and incisive protest against the closures. The Oxfordshire chappie allegedly (put that in to save legal costs - Ed)said, or allegedly words to that effect : Ok Hands up. But it's not my fault. It's the LibCons (cons in that they managed to fool you all -Ed)who have cut our budget to such a measly pittance that we are forced to choose between libraries and education/hospitals/old people/the disabled/the homeless/the insert anyone else who is needy. And of course, you wouldn't want me to sacrifice any of those would you? Pass the buck.

And we call ourselves a civilized society that could even imagine that this choice was a necessity?

See Phillip Pullman

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Liz Lochhead is new Makar, National Poet for Scotland

Congratulations to Liz Lochhead on becoming the new Makar. It couldn't be anyone else. She is so obviously the right choice: witty, feisty, a wicked but humane eye for character both in her poetry and plays and an ear for lively, playful speech, particularly her use of Glasgwegian demotic.

On a personal note, I have been a fan of Liz's work since 1972 when her first pamphlet 'A Memo for Spring' came out. I was working (on a temporary basis during my holidays as a teacher) at the famous Turret Bookshop in Holland Walk, Kensington owned by Bernard Stone. Frequently poets would come in for a glass of wine and many of the books had red rings on the covers: Brian Patten, Derek Mahon and Gerald Scarfe (the cartoonist, not poet) amongst them. Not Liz, at least when I was there. But I discovered her pamphlet and was electrified. A very soulful photo of her sitting on a hill with one of Edinburgh's mountains, Arthur's Seat in the background was the cover. She later told me that was the photographer's idea and never a true depiction of her character. The poems made a witty play with cliche, in the language of now, and made me realize that the lives of women could be poetry. Women could be poets too.

Many years later, I came up to the Edinburgh Festival in the late 1980s (probably 1987 or 1988?) and was thrilled to have front row seats at a cabaret-stye poetry performance by Liz. There was no stage, just a darkened room with Liz spot-lit, standing only yards from where I was sitting. I don't remember the venue - possibly the old Traverse site in the Grassmarket? nor the exact poems but they were feminist, hard-hitting, funny and I totally identified with them.

Scroll on a few years, when my husband and I unexpectedly moved to Edinburgh (for job reasons), and when I was accepted on the MPhil at Glasgow University Creative Writing programme, I was thrilled to have Liz as my tutor. Very privileged since she only stayed a year before pressure of play commissions etc meant she was forced to resign as university tutor. The first day I met her I gushed praises for her work and how much it meant to me and she quickly turned the subject. Liz does not court praise.

Liz said today at the National Library of Scotland where she was announced the Makar, shown on TV, that she wants kids to 'enjoy poetry not see it as a penance'. She wants to encourage 'the speaking of it and learning of it by heart as well as reading and writing it.'

Great. Poetry as fun. Not a hated, academic exercize of identifying and ticking off tropes as my son had to do at school. (Rather like identifying all the ingredients of a cake but never making it or eating it, I've always thought.)

Snow-capped Suilven, up in Assynt again, Jan 2011

A last minute vacancy and invitation to go on a writing retreat up in Glencanisp Lodge was too good to miss. Though it meant a leap of faith to get there. Icy roads, fog/mist/more snow forecast in the Grampians meant I did not dare take my car as usual but took the train from Edinburgh to Inverness (blissfully relaxing, and allowing reading, writing and snoozing in the warmth looking out smugly at icy rivers and snow-bound roads, tho traffic seemed to be moving on the main roads, if not the minor ones. The bus from Inverness to Ullapool was fine.

The trouble started when I had to change to another bus from Ullapool to Lochinver -by this time it was dark, swirls of snow, icy roads, bus wheels sliding from under us but all hail to the intrepid driver. The only passengers were myself and a mother and small boy. The mother was listening to her small boy reading a graphic novel (wot I used to call a comic?) of some monster and superhero's exploits, she and I exchanging worried glances every time a clunk came from below the bus as if some vital crank shaft or something was about to fall off. The reading was a welcome distraction. I hope Traveline buses have repaired it now?!

Still, a welcome deep, hot Victorian bath was awaiting me and the convivial company of others on 'creative retreat': some writers and some photographers. Each morning, Mandy Haggith provided creative warm-up writing sessions for those who wanted them. Others preferred to hole up in their rooms and GET DOWN TO IT- the great novel of the 21st c, a short story, a play or in my case a new project of linked poems - having finished a novel, it's great to turn to something else. And being the start of a new year, what better than something completely new (and I hope, different, at least for me).

Mandy left a list in the kitchen for requests from the 'kitchen fairy'. One guest asked for a dog to take for a walk and M duly managed to find a friend to provide one for her. As a break from the grind of one's project, Mandy would ask 'What is your creative treat for today?' I took up the offer of a few hours' art lesson given by local artist Mary in pastels. I don't know if it fed into my poetry but I'm sure it did, if only to give renewed energy. (A way of legitimizing displacement activity? Hmm.)

Walks in the snow up the glen were also a great way to get thoughts about possible poems or ideas going. Three of us went as far as a bothy below Canisp and Suilven - a great base camp in bad weather or to stay overnight if stranded. Everyone leaves something - candles, coal or beer. Best not to leave biscuits because of the mice I was told. There is a coal/wood shed and two inhabitable rooms with raised wooden shelves to sleep on (out of the way of any mice), and fireplaces. Apparently it is the same bothy Griff Rhys Jones visited on one of his TV programmes. We had a cup of tea, our sandwiches then left as sitting still (and not having lit a fire) we were getting cold. Best to warm up again with a march back to Glencanisp Lodge and the Victorian baths.

We did not see much of the photographers as they got up before dawn, returned briefly in the afternoons for Adobe Photoshop sessions then set off again for sunset : their subjects were, of course, mountain scapes of Stac Polly, Canisp, Cul Mor and Cul Beg, and isolated beaches of Achnaheard and Achmelvich. Suilven right outside our front door. If you're into photography, or if you just want to see some beautiful photos, have a look at the group leaders' work onand see what other courses visiting the beauty spots of the world he offers. With the proviso, you do have to not mind getting up at dawn. (Only 7.30 start for 8 am in January.) Not so relaxed in summer.

A great week, writing, thinking, walking, eating and chatting in eves and occasional forays to kitchen for a coffee with like-minded people. Some passable drafts for poems and lots of notes for future ones.
No food shopping, cooking, laundry, mobile phones. Bliss. Back to real life now.

For Gloencanisp retreats see

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