Authors Electric

It was the Great Big Greek Day at the Earth House on Saturday, put on by the Crick Crack Club. It began (after picnics, and by the way, did you know you can get Porn Star Vodka Martinis in a can?) with Ovid’s Metamorphoses, brilliantly presented by two storytellers, Hugh Lupton and Daniel Morden, who interwove the tales, starting with the beginning of Arachne, spinning off into many of the other tales, then ending with Arachne’s transformation. Electrifying! I was telling a friend about it and she asked, innocently, if there were many children there. No, these stories of incest, disembowelling, vengeance, you-name-it, are definitely not for children. Then, unusually, a short academic talk on what we know about the cult of Artemis from ancient artefacts by Professor Helen King, followed by the speaker transforming herself into an old woman (scarf over head) and giving us her story, which turned out to be largely about menstruation – NOT ‘the curse’ but a sacred event;...

I’m a little shrinking violet, really. Avoiding conflict at all costs, not showing off (‘drawing attention to yourself’always disapproved of mightily at home), but here goes: I’m going to show off and be controversial, all in the one blog, so there. First, the showing off. I’ve already Facebooked and Twittered this, but I haven’t finished yet: I have three poems in the current issue of The Blue Nib! Yes! The editor commented, ‘I like these plangent poems and the acute way you deal sensitively with what can often be very clichéd issues.’   Cor blimey! (that’s me, not the Editor). I’m blushing as I write, but only a little bit.  Now the controversy, which is about poetry – or not-poetry and not-art and not-music. William Carlos Williams started it with his note about eating the plums from the fridge. That’s what it is, a note left for his wife telling her that he’d eaten the plums. It’s been anthologised all over the place. Is it a poem? And who am I to ques...

To Music (An Die Musik ,) by Franz von Schober, set by Schubert You, noble Art, in how many grey hours, When life's mad tumult wraps around me, Have you kindled my heart to warm love, Have you transported me into a better world, Transported into a better world! Often has a sigh flowing out from your harp, A sweet, divine harmony from you Unlocked to me the heaven of better times, You, noble Art, I thank you for it, You, noble Art, I thank you! It’s a bit clunky and sounds much better in the original German, but it gives a flavour of what music may mean. I’m writing this still on a high from days of the glorious stuff, after one of the great joys of our year, the Purbeck International Chamber Music Festival. It’s brilliant! It started this year with three concerts in three venues in one day, beginning with Schubert’s Winterreise - sung by a mezzo, which is unusual, I think. She was absolutely wonderful. We were giv...

The power of words, eh? I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, partly because of Jo Bell’s ’52 poems’ challenge (I promise to stop banging on about it in about six months). There’s been a lot of struggling to find the most precise and satisfying way to express my response to each challenge – first things, weather, a celebration, a letter, a famous person, and so on. I was moderately happy as I wrote each one, but looking back over them has put a big dent in that. I am managing to say what I want to, but it doesn’t come near the poetry I admire. If poets are born and not made, I’m genetically deficient, but as I’m pig-headed (unofficial motto of Sussex: I wunt be druv) and I also believe that working at something can (sometimes) overcome such deficiency, I plough on. My ‘famous person’ is Nelson Mandela and I’m writing about ballroom dancing on Robben Island, which is an image I’ve always found inspirational. It’s coming slowly! Another recent effort, ‘a letter’   was to Al...