- A Friable Earth
- WOMAN'S HEAD AS JUG
- Readings and events
- The Workshop Handbook for Writers
- Feedback and comments
- Case study - Labyrinth of Love, Rambert Dance
- Case study - The Species Book
- WORK IN PROGRESS - poems and prose
- Workshops and employment
- Critical writing
- Fever Tree
- Powder Tower
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Mixing readings with workshops and poets discussing individual poems, as well as a translation 'duel', Winchester Poetry Festival has fixed itself into this glorious time of year with a full weekend programme from Friday to Sunday - 5, 6 & 7 October.
Readers include some of poetry's big names such as Gillian Clarke, Vahni Capildeo, Pascale Petit and Ian McMillan but mostly poets who contribute to the enormously various landscape of poetry, like Rebecca Goss, Nick Makoha, Karen McCarthy Wood, Stephen Watts and Maura Dooley, poets writing from as many different perspectives as there are names. And this is what marks a good festival, programmed with thought, sensitivity and awareness as well as an international perspective, thanks programmer-poets Sasha Dugdale and Sarah Hesketh.
Some of these poets I've seen before, one or two I've read with in the past. I know the work of many of them. But while a festival is a chance to celebrate the work you love, as a reader and a writer, it's also a chance to fill up, to open up, to wonder about work you might not have been drawn to otherwise. Poetry belongs to, and thrives in these moments of change - personal, seasonal, political, social.
Sunday, September 09, 2018
So I thought about self-imposed rules - I don't eat meat or fish. I don't drink gin or cow's milk. I walk somewhere every day. I recycle and reuse, don't watch daytime TV.
I don't remember the rules I may have imposed on myself in childhood although I do remember a visceral dislike of Brownies because of its rules. I loved the rule of cleaning a bridle after a ride, the smell of saddle soap. I was terrified by Father Walker and catechism classes.
I am slowly coming to the conclusion that the bin would be more interesting if it urged me to Break the rule because
|Wet paint - please don't let your dog wee on this wall|
I fantasise that I may already be breaking rules - how a woman of my age should behave, the rules of poetry. And there are pages of allotment rules I couldn't quote. But if there's anyone awake in the house that's chucked this bin out, they'll be wondering why I'm taking so long over a photo of their rubbish.
The rules of breast feeding, breast pumping, of school and diet, of sweets, of phone or no phone, and how long a teenager should stay out. A bafflement of rules and so often no choice but to break them.
And now, living back to back, stacked on top of each other, squashed together queuing for doctors, dentists, stamps, petrol, cash, the bar and the cinema, in such close proximity to each other, so needing to be different, to be distinguished from the next person in the queue, the opportunity for that small thrill of breaking or making a rule has become a kind of treat. So while marketers write revolution onto bins, chalked on the pavement is a plea for courtesy (mutual respect) and written on the wall is the most confusing sign of what we've come to.