Tag: lynne hjelmgaard

Recent reading

I’ve got into a rhythm of reading a Canto of Dante’s Purgatory each night before falling asleep, sometimes I get through the chapter commentary & notes too, sometimes not. If I’m too tired to finish the Canto I have to start it again the next day. Purgatorio is a more complex read than Inferno. There are just as many references to people and politics of the time, requiring explanation, but it seems to me there’s more characterisation and symbolism to get one’s head around, not to mention the philosophical wondering it’s sent me on.

Alongside this I’ve had a number of poetry collections on the go recently. Perhaps I’m getting more reading done this month because I’m not drinking alcohol? I can’t really see the connection, but I’m struggling to notice any other benefits to Dry November except the feeling of smug satisfaction that I can do it, if I put my mind to it. I hope I’m not jinxing it by making that claim when there are twelve days to go. Anyway, I wish I could commune with my internal organs and ask them if they’re feeling detoxified or rejuvenated.

Getting to the point (I know! finally!), here’s a roundup…

Each Other by Clare Best

Clare Best, Each Other (Waterloo Press £12)

I always make sure I settle down with a nice glass of wine cup of tea before delving into a new collection from Clare, because I know I’ll be reading it in one go. She manages to write with such punch, and yet it’s so elegantly understated. The second half of the book is the title sequence, charting a relationship from courtship to old age. Somehow Clare gets to the (sometimes heartbreaking) bottom of the subject with both grace and humour. The first section contains some beautiful, quite personal poems honouring family ties, love and loss. ‘In February’ is especially moving – ‘You’re introduced to angels […] look, they welcome you with song and wine/ as I would, darling. But I must stay behind.’

A Second Whisper by Lynne Hjelmgaard

Lynne Hjelmgaard, A Second Whisper (Seren, £9.99)

Another new release, from another poet friend (disclosure!) In reading many of these poems I feel I’m being invited into a very private space in which the poet mourns the loss of her husband and the subsequent journey that takes her into another loving relationship which also ends in that partner’s death. If that sounds morbid then it’s not – there is more celebration than sadness here, and the reader is left with a strong sense of love, gratitude and hope. Like Clare Best, Lynne has a connection with nature that permeates her explorations of human relationships. ‘Planted on either side of the garden / they slowly inch their way closer/until finally (a century or two later)/ the fir leans into its beloved palm.’ (‘Three Tree Poem’).

Head On by Clare Shaw

Clare Shaw, Head On (Bloodaxe 2012, £8.95)

The book’s blurb tells us we’re in for ‘interweaving themes of personal and political conflict’ and indeed you’re straight into this from the first poem, the powerful ‘I do not believe in silence’, with its repeated ‘because..’ and the turn from ‘I do not believe..’ into the positive: ‘I believe in the heart and its beat / and its bleep and the dance of the trace / on the screen…’ This rhythmic quality is a kind of drumbeat that drives the whole collection. The subject matter is often raw – injustices, dementia, rape, miscarriage – but it also bursts with passion and pure love:

‘How love must, at all costs,

be answered. We have answered
and so have a million before us
and each of their names is a vow.

So now I can tell you, quite simply
you are the house I will live in’

(‘Vow’)

Something that surprised me was the number of dactyls, particularly from the poem ‘A withered brown flower takes on a new colour’ (title dactylic in itself) to the end of the book. There was something about putting these poems back-to-back that meant the metre became a stumbling block in my reading of them. Still a wow of a book though.

The main reason I ordered Head On was because Clare’s one of the tutors at Kim Moore’s Poetry Carousel that I’m going to next month. Similarly, I’ve ordered books by David Tait and Malika Booker, to get at least a feel for their work. So more on those collections in another post.

Competition season! Be afraid. Plus the odd launch

Those Darn Comps

Love ’em or loath ’em, but some of us just can’t stop ourselves entering. “Is there a competition season?” someone once asked me and I feel as if there is, and it’s now – not sure why except that the National always closes on October 31st, this year a particularly loaded date, sadly. Plus the results of the Bridport out soon.

If you keep up with Angela T Carr’s comps and submissions blog posts then you’ll already know this, but just a reminder:

National Poetry Competition (a misnomer actually – it’s International, as the list of prize winners generally confirms) – closing date 31st October, judges Mona Arshi, Helen Mort and Maurice Riordan. First prize £5,000 but tons of kudos and visibility to anyone making the ‘commendeds’. Even reaching the ‘long list’ is pretty good. First entry £7, Poetry Society members get a FREE second poem. Enter here and lashings of good luck to you.

Also don’t forget the Troubadour Poetry Prize, closing on 21st October. £5 to enter and £2000 first prize, with the very interesting combo of Kathryn Maris and Pat Boran judging this year. I predict there’ll be one grandaddy of a pile of paper in the Maris-Riordan household come November.

Launches, readings

This evening it’s the Needlewriters in Lewes with readings by poets Clare Best, Robert Hamberger and Anna Reckin, alongside prose writer Martin Nathan. I’ll be the host, which is always fun. Do come if you’re able.

This Sunday I’m off up to Greenwich, my old manor, for the Live Canon readings & competition results (for which we’re all being kept cruelly on tenterhooks, having made the ‘long list’ – I’m assuming I haven’t won since I haven’t had the call to say ‘you are coming, aren’t you…?’ But it will be a fun-filled afternoon I’m certain, and every one’s a winner baby (NOT! – whoever thought up that stupid phrase!) Anyway, I’m looking forward to hearing the Live Canon ensemble perform the winning poems, it’s an amazing experience.

November is shaping up well – my new pamphlet launch is scheduled for 25th and (same week) I’m reading for Rogue Strands in London on 28th – more to come on both. I’m also hoping to get to Lynne Hjelmgaard’s launch of A Second Whisper (Seren) on Monday 11th.

Meanwhile I’m getting close to the end of Virginia Woolf’s A Writer’s Diary – I’ve been slowing down as we approach the second World War, I almost can’t bear to read her thoughts on it all – and am also in the ‘Rotten Pockets’ of Hell c/o Signor Dante Alighieri. No wonder I’ve been having such weird dreams lately.

 

Recipe for Water

Yes that probably sounds familiar, being the title of the 2009 collection by Gillian Clarke. I’ve been thinking a lot about water lately, and flow – great rivers, the mouths of rivers and the place where they become sea. Just riding the ideas at the moment and not rushing it. As Clarke puts it, ‘The sea turns its pages, speaking in tongues’ (‘First Words’)

I’ve been thumbing through some lovely watery poems. This, from Lynne Hjelmgaard’s A Boat Called Annalise: ‘We are in the Ocean’s mouth, / territory unknown’ (‘Night Watch’).  Or this, by Philip Gross:

Scroll up the chattering, brief brilliances
and long abradings, sweeping up of everything

that we let slip, the murk-dynamics
that we might mistake for memory.

(‘Reeling in the River’, from A Fold in the River.)

It’s been just over a year since we moved into our flat which is only a few minutes’ walk from the sea (well, not an ocean but the English Channel), and it’s starting to seep into me. Last week we took a trip to the other end of Great Britain, the northernmost tip of Scotland, and stayed in a room that seemed to teeter over the beach and watch over the North Sea beyond.

view from window

On the last day we managed to fit in a trip to Loch Ness. But a highlight for me was crossing the Cromarty Firth on a ferry with only room for one car (ours). Like a sort of river taxi! The river here is full of decommissioned oil rigs which have a sort of bleak beauty.

Ning ferry across the Cromarty Firth

 

Lynne Hjelmgaard book launch

[…]

Outside each propelling constellation
but inside that feeling of boat.

It demands and bruises,
cuts pride, hardens stomachs.

[…] (‘That Feeling of Boat’)

It was such a pleasure to be at the launch of Lynne Hjelmgaard’s new collection A Boat Called Annalise last night.

Hosted by publisher Seren Books, it was a warm occasion, well attended and with an open bar (slightly dangerous when there are poets around, but Lynne assured me there was a cap!) The upstairs room at the Yorkshire Grey in Camberwell was a good venue – there seem to be a number of pubs in that area where poetry events happen, usually while a completely different set of patrons drink downstairs, unaware of the poetry doo-dads happening above.

I’ve known Lynne for a few years now, and apart from being a truly generous and gentle soul, she has a rare and quiet wisdom from which I’ve drawn great support.  I admire her work, her attitude and her honesty and I’m fortunate to count her as a friend. Clearly many people feel the same way as there was a lot of love in the room.

Lynne Hjelmgaard book launch for A Boat Called Annalise

Several of the poems in A Boat Called Annalise are familiar to me from workshopping sessions in the past. As Lynne would be getting out her poem I’d occasionally tease her ‘is it about … boats..?’

But to read them as a sequence so much is revealed – about the adventure at the core of the collection (the poet sailing across the Atlantic to the Caribbean with her late husband, and their lives there) and the relationships – between husband and wife, between the poet and the boat, the sea, the landscapes and the people.

Beautiful, tender, dream-like in parts, yes, but this is a real story about hard-won achievement and the poignancy of loss; the poems  take the reader into the guts of the experience.

[…]

The no-moon night,
the dark ghostly creatures,
the slow-motion small tsunamis

engulf Annalise,
reek of rotten seaweed,
spilled oil, dead shark.  (‘Night Watch’)

A Boat Called Annalise, Seren 2016 £9.99

Readings, talks, good poetry stuff on the horizon

Last Thursday I was at Roehampton University where I’d been invited by Principal Lecturer Louise Tondeur to talk to her Creative Writing students about Telltale Press, collaborative working, the importance of submitting work to magazines, marketing your work/yourself, that sort of thing. I get a bit scared when faced by a room of people (mostly) under 21 – I find it impossible to tell if they’re interested or even listening. I suppose all my teaching experience has been with adults who are uninhibited about showing enthusiasm or appreciation, asking questions, and engaging fully. And yet the general feedback afterwards was great, and several people wanted to talk to me individually. I was even invited to the students’ showcase event to hear their work. Once again I was reminded of my great admiration for our overworked and underpaid teachers and lecturers.

Monday: to the Troubadour. Anne-Marie Fyfe’s Coffee House Poetry nights at the Troubadour are always well attended. On Monday it was standing room only, and I was lucky to get a seat. The nice thing about everyone squashing up together is you always meet new people, which is great if you go on your own. The room heaves with published poets. Plus there’s always some kind of surprise guest in the audience – or the rumour of one. It all adds to the mystique. The season finale nights are long, with over 60 poets each reading a poem. I haven’t yet made it to the end, only because I have to get the second-to-last train home (the last being over an hour later). But I always enjoy the night. It has to be the most successful poetry night in London… unless you know differently?

Last night: Hastings Stanza. One of the fun things about having relocated to Eastbourne is discovering parts of Sussex I’d never much explored before. I’ve yet to really spend time in Hastings, but it’s less than half an hour on the train and pootling over to the Stanza evenings is a pleasure.

I’ve mentioned before how Antony Mair runs the group with such an air of organised calm. And there’s always something interesting coming up – Antony and Jill Fricker are currently collaborating with local choirs on a project to mark the anniversary of the Battle of Hastings, and last night Jill brought along a lovely poem about Harold’s widow identifying him after the battle by his tattoos. Meanwhile Antony had been to a Live Canon workshop day and subsequently been invited to contribute to an anthology of responses to Shakespeare’s sonnets (another anniversary). He was kind enough to get me invited too, so more about this in another post.

The Hastings Stanza poets are taking part in a World Poetry Day event in Eastbourne on March 21st and a Stanza Bonanza in London in April. All good stuff.

Spring is definitely here – there are lots of readings coming up (more in another post) and next week I’m looking forward to the launch of Lynne Hjelmgaard’s collection A Boat Called Annalise (Seren). Having heard many of the poems in the workshop stage it will be fascinating – plus lovely to see Lynne’s poetry being celebrated. She’s a good friend and mentor, generous and modest about her writing.

Kicking off the New Year at the Poetry Cafe

The Poetry Cafe

Telltale Poets & Friends were at the Poetry Cafe last night and it was a lovely evening. I’d been a bit nervous about holding this event so soon in the New Year but it felt really good and positive – plus we had a super quality audience and no empty seats! (OK so we didn’t put ALL the seats out!)

Peter Kenny & I were joined by special guests Rhona McAdam (over from Canada), Catherine Smith (who read an extract from her pamphlet The New Cockaigne, a wonderful paean to excess and debauchery) and our new discovery Siegfried Baber who gave a very self-assured and entertaining reading. You’ll be hearing more about him.

We all sold a few books/pamphlets, which was great. And with a 7pm start, it meant many of us had some quality time in the pub afterwards, and us Lewes folks were still home by not long after midnight.

My only regret is not taking photos – what is wrong with me?? I always either forget or end up with rubbish pics I can’t use. DUH! Must do better.

I really enjoyed meeting Rhona and Sieg, and also poets in the audience including Tamar Yoseloff, Robert Seatter, Nancy Mattson and Mike Bartholomew-Briggs. Lovely to see Lynne Hjelmgaard there also. What a warm atmosphere. We even had an audience member all the way from Knoxville, Tennessee, who’d come across the event by chance and was on his first visit to London. Needless to say we took him under our wing and he came with us to the Cross Keys afterwards. I like to think he’ll go home with a story about the crazy night in the basement room in Covent Garden listening to poetry, followed by the full London Pub Experience.

End of year thank yous, submissions news, plans

Daisy by the Xmas treeHappy Holidays (or non-denominational winter festival, etc). Wouldn’t it be great to end the year on a ‘good news’ note? You know – I’ve suddenly been snapped up by Faber, or something – but I’ve nothing exciting to report on the submissions front, sadly: yet another no from Ambit, and a very swift no from HappenStance (very generous of Nell Nelson to read and respond so quickly and thoughtfully, even though I sensed she found my poems a tad yawn-worthy. Clearly I must do better if I want to raise myself above the swollen river of poetic same-ness that constantly darkens her door. Oh dear, there’s a lovely mixed metaphor for you – I rest my case…)

Oddly enough I don’t feel knocked back. I’m strangely optimistic about 2014, and determined to make something happen rather than be passive about it all. What that means exactly I’m not sure, it’s just a kernel of a feeling for now … will let you know!

There’s plenty of poetry business to keep me out of mischief in January: a trip to the T S Eliot Award readings on 13th – I have poet friend Julia to thank for introducing me to this annual poets’ gathering. Great fun! Also, I’ve lately got involved with Needlewriters here in Lewes, and am pledged to help publicise it – next event is on 16th, with Kay Syrad, Patricia McCarthy and John Usher. Plus there’s Brighton Stanza to think about – next meeting on 20th and some planning to be done before then.

I’m planning also for the Lewes Singers, our occasional choir – two concerts in 2014 and cathedral visits for 2015 and 2016 – yes, they have to be booked that far ahead! The Church of England may be struggling for attendees these days and plenty of the less glamorous cathedrals are desperately strapped for cash, but there will always be a ton of choirs wanting to sing in them.  Sadly, it’s regular church goers and visitors who are needed, for their donations, whereas visiting choirs contribute nothing except their singing. A bit unfair of us really. The unevenness of this reminds me of the situation in poetry, vis a vis readers / writers.

I was very lucky this Christmas, not only did my lovely other half buy me a copy of A London Year, 365 Days of City Life in Diaries, Journals and Letters by Travis Elborough, which I’ve coveted for a while, but Stepson also came up trumps and presented me with the Centenary Edition of William Blake’s Poetry and Prose. Blake! Just the thing I need to clear my brain after a bit of Christmas excess and trashy reading.

This will probably be my last post for 2013, so I wanted to mention some of my favourite poetry blogs/poet bloggers and generous Poetgal supporters … thank you all so much for the wonderful posts, discussion, comments, shares/retweets, camaraderie and support: Josephine Corcoran at And Other Poems, Abegail Morley at The Poetry Shed, Anthony WilsonMeg CoxIsabel Rogers, Jean Tubridy at Social BridgeJayne StantonElly Nobbs, Hilda Sheehan and Lynne Hjelmgaard. And apologies to anyone I’ve omitted. You are all brilliant and it’s a pleasure to know you (even if virtually).

Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, and I wish you a healthy, happy and successful 2014! Robin x

Dannie Abse, Alwyn Marriage and Rosie Bailey at Keat’s House

Dannie Abse & Lynne Hjelmgaard
Dannie Abse & Lynne Hjelmgaard

Great evening last night at Keat’s House for the Poetry Society AGM (brief) and three excellent readings. I was very pleased to sit with poet friend Lynne and hear about “that” royal reception last week (and no, I wasn’t invited – boo!) and also have her introduce me to some people I didn’t know, such as Cheryl Moskowitz.

Only just now I googled Rosie Bailey and discovered that as well as being an experienced academic and poet in her own right she was also the collaborator/partner of U A Fanthorpe. Now I feel rather ignorant for not having heard of her. I really enjoyed her poems and delivery, even the painfully sad one about a lady in a hairdressers trying to stay chipper about Christmas.

Alwyn Marriage came to the mic with her phone apparently ringing, and in answering it it became clear this was part of her act (together with donkey, bleating lamb and cow hats for another poem about the nativity). She and Rosie had been briefed to read poems on a Christmas theme, a direction which apparently hadn’t been given to Dannie Abse, but I got the impression nobody minded, least of all him. Dannie read from his T S Eliot-nominated book Speak, Old Parrot… I wonder if he was expecting the ‘Happy Birthday to you’ singsong and the cake when it was brought out?

Hard to imagine Dannie Abse is 90, or what might be going through his mind when he contemplates the Poetry Society today and it’s allegedly tumultuous past. (By the way, check out this biog and wonderful photo of him when he was young.) Fascinating to talk with him, and lovely also to run into Hilda Sheehan (Hilda, you’re everywhere!), Tessa Lang of Clapham Stanza, Kate White, Shanta Acharya and others.

As usual, I managed to make an idiot of myself. I marched up to someone who had been pointed out to me as being Paul McGrane of the Poetry Society, who I’ve emailed with but never met, introduced myself very confidently, only to discover it wasn’t him at all. DUH! I had to then avoid eye contact with the poor man all evening as he clearly had me down as a numpty.

A poem by Lynne Hjelmgaard

I first met Lynne Hjelmgaard at a Brighton Stanza meeting, and knew straight away she was a poet I wanted to hear more of and would enjoy workshopping with. Lynne has had an extraordinary, almost nomadic background – from New York via Denmark, Paris, Rome, London and the sea. The range of her experience and poetic wisdom is an inspiration to me, and I’m very pleased to have one of her poems on my blog.

The poem reproduced here is from A Boat Called Annelise, a sequence based on a period in Lynne’s life when she lived on a boat and sailed around the world. It’s beautiful and dreamlike, yet grounded in vivid, lived detail.

  
Because of the beauty of the ship herself

When we found her
it happened quickly,
when we left her
it felt like a divorce.

We had worked our way into Annalise:
the pungent smell of her deep shadowy bilge;
dawn-walks to showers
in mouldy leather shoes.

(Wet on the trip in
wet on the trip out.)

Annalise peeled away
layers of ourselves.
Old meandering patterns
shed like unwanted winter clothes.

We learned to care
for her bronze, steel and wood,
devotedly washed and rubbed
all her curves and corners.

Her decks cracked and creaked,
rigging throbbed and hummed,
sails fluttered and snapped,
hull pounded and leapt,

the booming sea-roar crouching to pounce,
until Annalise lifted her heavy rounded stern
in the very last unbalanced moment,
and reduced seawater to slush.

In harbour, ships’ wakes and rolls
rocked us sleepily secure,
water gurgled under her hull
like gentle, shaking bells.
We slept ’til she opened our ears
to all natural sounds.

Our ship made music.
Our ship was music.

 

Lynne Hjelmgaard‘s latest book, The Ring, was published with Shearsman Books in 2011. Her new sequence, A Boat Called Annalise, was a runner-up in the 2012 Poetry Wales Purple Moose Pamphlet Competition.

Poetry Review launch and the Keats & Marx trail

Last week I met up with poet friend Lynne to go to the Poetry Review launch at Keats House museum in Hampstead. I admit I’d not visited Keats House before (although I’ve been to the one in Rome), and I don’t think I’ve ever been to that part of Hampstead either. I grew up in South London and north of the river was (and still is in a way) a foreign country.

As soon as you get off the train at Hampstead Heath it feels like you’re in a rather well-heeled and gorgeous place. Must be something to do with the street name plates being white-on-black, like in Oxford.

Keats Grove
Wouldn’t you want to live here?

Keats House apparently used to be two dwellings made to look from the outside like one. Young John was separated from Fanny Brawne merely by a load-bearing wall.

Keats House

The Poetry Review Launch was a warm affair and very sociable, Lynne and I even got snapped by the paparazzi.

Robin & Lynne

I met some lovely people, including Shanta Acharya, London poet Tessa Lang and recent Pighog Pamphlet winner Kate White, but didn’t really do any schmoozing. I almost introduced myself to Maurice Riordan, but then what would I have said to him? I actually don’t have a great track record of this sort of thing. Plus I’d had two three glasses of wine by this point and we all know what happens when things get a bit lairy.

Highlight of the evening for me was hearing Sam Willetts read – more about him in a later blog post.

Anyway, I was so delighted with the place I persuaded my husband that we had to have a day out to Hampstead and Highgate the very next week. As luck would have it, we chose Tuesday and it POURED with rain. Here I am slightly less happy, in Highgate Cemetery.

Highgate Cemetery
I’m feeling a bit how he looks.

We took the guided tour of Highgate Cemetery West and learned about the Victorian fashion for draped vases, sleeping angels, Egyptian themed monuments and body snatching. There are 53,000 graves, mostly falling down as the undergrowth slowly reclaims it all. In the drizzle I can only liken it to being in a jungle, or perhaps Angkor Wat – but colder and quieter.

Angel memorial Highgate

HIghgate Cemetery West

HIghgate Cemetery West

People are still being buried at Highgate, but not as many as in its heyday (thirty a day wasn’t uncommon apparently.) One of its newest residents is Alexander Litvinenko, whose grave we were asked not to photograph.

I’d like to go back to the Cemetery on a drier day. Not sure if anyone offers writing workshops there but it fired up all sorts of weird ideas in me.

We decided not to walk up onto Hampstead Heath – another time! – but at least we visited Keats House properly and ended up playing Scrabble and drying off at The Wells (fab food by the way.)

Last but not least – did you know Hampstead has its very own Flatiron Building?

Flatiron buildings x 2
Separated at birth?