Yes, I do have some poetry events in my diary

1. Pity of War, St Michael Northgate, Oxford, Sat 13th Sept, 5.30 - 6.30pm

2. Poetry Weekend/Festival, Lower Shaw Farm, Swindon, 2nd to 5th Oct

3. Fiona Sampson reading, Albion Beatnik Bookstore, Walton Street, Oxford, Fri 17th Oct, 7.30pm

For a moment I had thought there was nothing on my horizon, but then I looked more closely and hit gold.

My French grandmother put dates of fascinating museum talks in her diary so that she had things to look forward to and could invite friends to. My brother follows this rule now.

'a genuine stink of the poet's own fox'

Abegail: What kind of poetry most appeals to you?

Martin: Poetry with a least a hint of the essential and a genuine stink of the poet’s own fox.

This formatting is most peculiar, copying and pasting from someone's blog comes out like this sometimes. Anyway, what an answer. 'the poet's own fox' Wow. 

So, your own fox? Mine is much more uncompromising than I'd thought. Simple and violent. It definitely holds up a mirror to my internal world. I'm not what I thought I was.

Would you like to try to answer this question in the comments box?

Drift by Caroline Bergvall

I missed this by an hour recently on a poetry pilgrimage to London.

There is a printed, written poem, plus a voice plus musical performance. I can't find a complete recording or video of that. Short portions of the audio are available.

Blog piece on the whole poem.

Link with 2 short audios.

Hearing what I can of it makes me realise how I have taken in the cold, sea smashed nature of our life here in the north of Europe. The wind, rain, gales, shipping forecasts, fear for those in heaving ferries... the whole horror of the sea. Yet my intense longing to be near it, to smell the air, have the salty skin which comes from spending days sailing. Those rocks and pebbles, cold sand, little patterns we make in the sand to channel the water down via our own little river way to the edge of the beach. The endless destruction and shifting from the waves. Wonderful and fearsome, unalterable, terrifying.

Translating my own poem - Grammar

1

I have a small poem which I won't read out at any reading soon. I don't want to share it with anyone to translate yet. However I hit on the idea of doing it myself. Since I know French I have had a go at moving it into French.

What a surprise. Since I know what I was driving at in my English words, I am not just making a translation, but an expression of what-it-was-before-it-came-out-in-English in French. I am surprised at my knowledge of French, much subtler than I had been aware of. Phrases and single words come to mind. I have not gone to look for my dictionary yet, though I did use Google Translate. It wasn't very good, just clunky. The spellings were correct, but then I knew them anyway.

I know this little poem by heart so I can think about it as I walk around.

Is a poem written by one person, but in two languages, a different thing from a poem written by one person and translated by another? Twin poems, dual poems, parallel poems. It wasn't written with the intention to translate it. That might alter things entirely.

2

I worked out a piece of grammar for myself today, so feel satisfied with myself. It started with an un-obvious translation of 'home news'. I then reflected on the name of a pudding I had with my brother over the weekend and put 2 and 2 together to make 4. I worked it out while walking from my kitchen through the passageway to my mother in law's house. I even waved my arms around in pleasure at my discovery.

Your whole life

Muriel Rukeyser: "And it seems to me that the invitation of poetry is to bring your whole life to this moment, this moment is real, this moment is what we have, this moment in which we face each other, and if a poem is any damn good at all, it invites you to bring your whole life to that moment, and we are good poets inasmuch as we bring that invitation to you, and you are good readers inasmuch as you bring your whole life to the reading of the poem."

Quote from a book I read nearly a year ago. I can't imagine I understood much of it. I had never heard of most of the writers, even Muriel Rukeyser is 100% new to me.

The book is in the London Library if you have access to it: classroom-magic-25-years-of-conversations-with-americas-poets. This link takes you to a review of it, plus quotations.

Wow, what a weekend

There was a chance of a weekend in London, so I grabbed it:

Got to London in time to park for free
And go into the Mosaic Rooms, looked at photos

Mysterious heaps of grave stones
And a mysterious film also strong on rocks

Bookshop section, found 3 books
Nice room with views right down the street

Toss up between going to dance all evening or see if my parents were in
Stood in front of my parents' house, all dark

Texted with my mother and brother
Walked my feet sore to get hold of a box of sushi

Loved the buzz of Victoria Station, easily pleased
Wrote haiku in between bites of sushi

Amazingly none got spilt onto the pristine sheets
Late night news, luckily I can't remember any of it

Huge English breakfast
A little rest, woke up after midday

Trip to meet my brother postponed
Tube to South Ken

Enjoyed the dark metal joists of the ceiling at Victoria
Years of waiting on those platforms on my way to school

How can a station platform equal home
Deciding to wait for the next train so I'd get enough space

Start on my parallel reading, English/Arabic
Looking at the big pedestrian walkways with a tourist's eye

Risked a dip into the V and A, not in fact a short cut
Gazed at the dresses without expecting this

Decided I preferred the draped 40's dresses the best
Lines of 20's onwards seem to have settled in as our design standard

Remembered a beautiful silk kaftan I bought but gave away
Also a favourite dressing up petticoat, must have been from 50's

Then on towards the park
Surprised by the familiar plants, I touch them gently

I stop in various places, stopped by the planting
I see the view goes right over to the Shard and Eye

In the distance I see 2 vast rocks on top of each other, satisfying
In the Pavilion itself I ask: 'Where is the Pavilion?'

It is a cafe, so I eat and talk to a great stranger for ages
Eventually we have covered many topics and say goodbye

Off to the Sackler Gallery, bouncing severed heads, topical
Remind me of the video films T and H enjoyed years ago, gory but sanitised

Sit on floor to watch film, they always taste better that way
Eventually decide I have had enough

Go to see what else there is, and it's all more of the same
There is a message here, so I watch more of the same from different locations

More bouncing heads, they are growing on me
Total surprise, the restaurant next door is where I want to live

Corridor to ladies is a thing of such minimalism and beauty
The walls of the loo are soft metal, what an experience

The sinks are a test of ingenuity, how to get the taps to work
I just gaze at the restaurant, nearly spend more cash in there

Come across some long grass and sprawl
The grass smells and I smell it, my face gets creases with grass marks

I just look at the London sky through the grass, forget culture, just lie on the grass
My impossible sandwich gets eaten without onlookers

More walking, find out that the 1 million years of human evolution finished at 5pm
Try a new cookie shop by station

Try again to see if my parents are back in town, silent house
Brother and I agree on Edgware Road, not Leicester Square

Get dropped off at Speakers' Corner, try to listen
Religion is still the impossible theme, still a dialogue of the deaf

Good natured crowds, clustering close round each speaker and main opponent
Why don't people use chairs to stand on any more?

No bookshops, worth a try, but I get a cd for the car, title makes me blush
J and I go right up and down Edgware Road and settle on a cafe

Much mint tea and puddling, I am stuffed, news swap
I teach him to order pudding and tea in Arabic

Goodbyes on the street, then I see a friend from Oxford
We search for a cafe, no luck

She then sees another friend from Oxford, tells me it's fine to go off with them
Long evening of chat and meeting someone else who knows my own family, back 1am

Driving across to try again for the million years of history, too long a queue
Take a chance with Disruptive Objects at the V and A

I am riveted, death penalty, videos, defacing bank notes
I used to write 1% and 99% on all my bank notes for a while

Get into conversation with another interesting stranger, is there no end to this?
Drive to Great Russell Street, how many changes there are to the roads

Useful to drive around the routes, learn the new ways, so much building work
Flooding in bookshop/cafe, so I only get into the book bit

Glad to get text book I need
Korean place for spicy soup and read intro to my text book

Yay, my mother answers phone, drive there
Kisses, chat, toast, tea, sofa, my father, news about children

Discuss things, grab these chances,
See haiku opportunities in unlikely places

Huge puddles by Embankment
Murky Thames, high under the bridge arches

Drive and drive back home, rain all the way
Sodden stacks of baled straw in field by motorway.

The news and that video

My second most hit upon post ever includes a link to an interview/film James Foley made with Matthew Van Dyke in Tripoli 2011: remember-locks-being-broken

I am appalled by this, but my younger son (16) was just starting to watch the video when I said hallo to him this morning. I said, no don't watch that, really don't, but left him to it. What can you do?

I asked him this evening if he was all right, now he'd seen it. He said yes, with the callousness of youth. He told me a bit about it, which I hadn't needed to hear, but then stopped. I wish he hadn't told me.

Everything like this hardens my tolerance level just that little bit, to cope, to find my new normal. If it can't become a new normal I wouldn't be able to function. Horrible thought. All these distancing and coping mechanisms kick in to protect my mind.

Yes, I really wish I hadn't heard what he told me. So we will need more talking tomorrow.

Growing up with a photo

This was the one which burned into my mind. The aunt at the funeral of her nephew killed in Vietnam.

By Constantine Manos

The photo annuals were kept on a low shelf so I could lie around looking at them on the carpet. My brother did other things so we didn't compete with each other on that one. I think my father must have been able to afford one per year, so that's what he got. I just looked at the same ones whenever I wanted.

There was a big book of work by Henri Cartier-Bresson - The Decisive Moment.

In a way having a small number of things to look at means loving them more as time passes. They are like the hills or the smell of sheep, always the same, but a fresh pleasure each time.

Yet another film seemingly including parts of my life - The Separation

I wanted to relax and have a helpful nap in front of a soothing film. Instead I chose a difficult one I paid attention to. How does this happen?

The terrifying consequences of a wife refusing, for her own unspecified reasons, to continue to play the game. Even I decided she was in the wrong for wanting to separate while the father in law was living with the family.

I couldn't believe how they were able to actually talk/shout even while splitting up. Surely there would be a deadly silence?

And how come she went while he was right there, surely she'd wait until he was asleep or something? Or go for lunch at her parents' house and just happen to have all her financial paperwork and favourite clothes and books in the boot of the car.

I found it unbelievable that the wife was welcomed back by her own parents. How kind is that? That doesn't seem very realistic.

Assimilation

I was shocked recently when my mother used the word 'assimilated' to refer to the process her family/my family has gone through. All these years I have known her and not one mention of such a thing. I never realised that she was aware of this transition. Of course she was, it was so obvious it didn't need talking about.

To me it is clear as day. We just weren't here before the mid 1930's, apart from one grand parent. The rest were in other places. It's a long time ago now, but it wasn't when I was born.

Wendy Klein - A Short Manhattan Lullaby

No wonder I am exhausted. Too much going on and filling up my head. I have a backlog of poets to link to.

I met Wendy this week. We walked around and sat in my car to move it to free parking. After a poetry workshop it is helpful to have down time to start to process it and to connect with the other participants. I wasn't sure I would be going to the evening reading as I had no idea whether it would all be too much. I gave myself the option to do something else entirely should I feel the need.

Here is Wendy reading out at the Troubadour in London. A place I could go along to one day when I am near there. Manhattan

كل يوم - Every day

Every day I find something new to cry about.
No, every day something finds me,
And there I am, in tears again.

Why are you learning Arabic?

I get asked this every week. Every time I give a different answer. Why do people ask? No one asks me why I have streaks in my hair, go dancing, ignore my garden, have a thing about poetry. Or maybe I have answers for all those questions, but just don't have one for this.

It irks me because if only it were going in a lot faster I would be more cheerful about it, but it is unpredictable and frustrating. I cannot remember not knowing languages and hate being such a beginner.

At least I enjoy the sensation of knowing a bit, but lots going above my head. In fact I get hugely antsy and anxious if I have to learn 100% of something. I am much happier with having a big sky above me of words I don't know. So listening to the radio and recognising words as they fly past is great, I can't pause it or do any more than think huh, I know that one, but what does it mean? I know the fog will clear, but I don't know when.

I was annoyed when I went on the Tube in London recently and didn't spot one single Arabic word to try and sound out. How can the Tube be so completely English? The streets are different and the British Museum even had a great guide book in Arabic.

I asked for the Arabic guide book in the Ashmolean in Oxford and was looked at as if I had two heads. So no joy there.

Last night I was out at a restaurant and produced a 3 word phrase every 15 minutes to the person sitting opposite me. Really I should have had a notebook with me so that we could have written down each new phrase and I could have written down English words he didn't get. Try saying The Mosaic Rooms in a restaurant full of chatter to someone who isn't expecting that name!

Confession

I went into the opticians with my son and got talking to the people working there.

First I recommended the Albion Beatnik in Oxford to a lady who said it sounded like heaven. So she will probably get there pretty soon.

Then I confessed to the man who'd mentioned his dream a few months ago that I'd put it into a poem and had even read it out in public. He was so thrilled and wants to see it.

Why am I even writing?

Go here and read Anthony Wilson, then go to his links and add names to your mental notebook. Go all over the place.

Go here and listen to 3 people I know a bit discussing poetry and war, then doing translation, starting at 2 hours in. It's only live for a few more days. Do whatever you need to do...

I'm the one who isn't going, yet. But it makes me happy when others are able to.

Money, I was going to give this to 52, but I don't think it would count as poetry

52:32:6

True email to my son - is this poetry? 'Hell Yeah' as my son would say!

"Eh, what? £400?

Help, I can't transfer cash from RBS to Barclays account that fast. I think you need to have a heart to heart with Stuart about £££.

Sarah xx"

Huh! It seems to be true that poetry sorts out your soul - 19 years ago this night

Sorting out my soul

I'm embarrassed to be admitting this, after somehow forgetting to just try out what we are being asked to experiment with on the Iowa course. My reward is to be able to read and comment on others' experiments.

It took another horrible chest pain to get me to do this, and a visit to the doctor. He didn't tell me to do anything, just listened when I said I knew it was a warning shot from the deep to sort out some things. He asked whether I'd wait for it to happen again before I acted. Do my notes say "Sarah likes to pretend all is ok"?

19 years ago

T was born on 2nd August 1995, there was a bit of a thunder storm that night over Oxford as I looked out of the windows at the Radcliffe. Many hours later he was born, in the afternoon. It really does split my life in two, before and after the first birth. I think the moment of moving from one life to the next was the moment he was given to me and I felt him in my arms, hot and wet against the skin of my belly. Nothing compares. Even then we didn't know he was a he, all that umbilical cord, I couldn't see and needed to look into his dark blue eyes again. It is so, so physical.

---
From drafts. This was from last week.

What do you love?

I asked someone this question about 10 years ago. I knew immediately this was the one unanswerable question that was needed at that point when I saw the reaction. I got a different unanswerable question in return later and could only shake my head, no verbal reply or explanation possible.

Recently after a funeral I had a long chat, all afternoon actually, with my brother and someone I have known since about 1998. My question to her was: Do you love? Are you loved? Then I tried to take some lovely photos of her and made a hash of it! We talked in a cafe, in the street, in another cafe, more street...

Burial "Raver" Strange, but I like it.

---

Post from my undealt-with-draft-file series. There are 87 drafts, so this series may last me until the internet changes its spots.

Instant poetry party: El Habib Louai at the Albion Beatnik

I am so lucky. I got an email, had a free evening, jumped in my car, took off.

This Moroccan guy spent last summer? travelling across America from poet to poet in all sorts of great cities, Boulder, Colorado etc. And there he was reading out his translations into Arabic just for us, a bunch of Oxford poetry floozies, enticed by no entry fee and even free tea/coffee. He loves chatting and meeting people, reading out his work and hanging around with anyone who is into poetry.

We asked questions and talked politics, interrupted what he was saying, let him tell us about his night not on the tiles at some grey hound bus station. We had to be told to wind it up because we were settling in for the night, and the shop does need to shut!

To finish 2 brave souls did an open mic, someone else and me. We all had photos taken of each other and swapped various facebook and email details.

Now I need his translation of something to work on. It's on YouTube. I put Arabic on hold temporarily, needing to reclaim my mind, but that's been reversed again. Nothing like being read to by a real live person.

100,000 Poets for Change

Metaphor in the garden

Wisteria and the falling down structures:

There are 2 outbuildings, side by side. They are falling apart, heading downwards, bits of wood are falling off them, their roofs are at the wrong angles and the uprights are tilting severely.

The wisteria tree has been there for many years, it has a huge solid trunk and massive branches which spread right over the unstable structures. Even though it looks about to collapse I give it a shake, hoping it will crash around my ears, but it is surprisingly and annoyingly unbudgable. There are nasty sharp nails exposed by the falling planks. There are bits of wood at eye level which could damage anyone getting too close. It looks disturbing. It is disturbing. It is crashing down at a glacial pace.

Under each of these structures there is space for garden chairs. One is bigger and provides total protection from the rain, but is dusty and nothing grows under it. The other is smaller and lets the rain through, but has vines and wisteria leaves as its roof and is beautiful, cool when it is too hot, lets in a bit of sunlight and has an array of plants in pots from another part of the garden. Exiles from the dangerous wall which was taken down and rebuilt safely.

What can I do with my metaphor? What can I do with my garden?

I Know a Man by Robert Creeley - Using other people's words

I Know a Man

We moved on to the anxious, troubling, edgy recordings of I Know a Man. There are several on this page: writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Creeley Page down a little to find them.

After we had several rounds of saying what we wanted in 2 minute timed session, I hit on the idea that the speaker might have been walking in the daytime, not driving at night.

He could have been about to step off the kerb into the path of a truck, bump into a baby's pram, slip over the edge of a dangerous cliff edge.

I am still completely wedded to the images of 2 people in the front seats of a car driving through the night, but now I am wedded to another scenario too.

Using other people's words

We tried cutting up the poem into individual words and took some time to make our own something new from them. I broke the rules and only used 16 words. All the rest were my own. I decided on a series of lines, each one starting with I or You alternately. The rest of each line included, you/your or I/my. This constraint surprised me. Now I need to do further drafts.

Doing our own work is less familiar to us than discussing someone else's poem. In which directions will our group go? Should we take turns to lead a writing time for the last 30 mins of our sessions? We are not used to writing instantly and have not given feedback to each other on what results from it.

ModPo Plus - A Bench - from 23rd August 2014

An audio introduction to the new parallel syllabus to the existing ModPo 10 week course. This is for those who have already done the main course and want more. I am looking forward to this and wonder how to fit everything into my autumn. I may have to delay some other things until January.

I took supplies to a friend so we could have lunch together if she wanted. When I asked if we could sit outside in the sun she told me that she in fact had a bench of her own! Tied with a bike chain to a rain pipe in the communal gardens and tucked out of the wind. She said it is used by others for quiet moments.

Shifts - from 6th August 2014

My Serbian grandmother died in 2004. I think that was when my English started to lose its not quite right quality. I used to speak in emphatic phases. Someone I talk to every week said that I used to speak like someone else he knew and we finally pinned it down to a foreign something which was going on with the syntax. Now I speak in whole sentences but still have a problem with my accent placing me close to Sloane Square, but my brain is floating somewhere else, not willing to be bog standard British. I sometimes tick the White British box, but think that is hilariously inappropriate. Other times I make a new line for myself and put myself down as European, just to annoy or tickle the stats analysers. Not just a new line, but a whole explanation as well.

I asked a kind Iraqi man at a poetry event a question which unfortunately made him sad. I could tell, but he didn't say anything, or give an answer. I just asked 'How is your Arabic?'. In fact I then realized it was a terrible question because my French grandmother had lost bits of her French, while gaining lots of English, but not 100%, so she was not perfect anywhere. So it was probably the same story for him.

Summer with Allen Ginsberg

We thought we were going to give Howl a second week, but now it seems as if we may be here all summer. The more we look, the more we see. We are getting used to reading it out section by section, we switch readers each time the line starts from the very left. I love hearing the others' voices reading on and on.

I misremembered Kaddish, but have just had a careful look at it. It is less shocking the more slowly I read it. It makes more sense.

Babies in the tomatoes I love this too, much shorter and easier.