day fourteen and an evening birdsong walk

I am so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open (I know, and it’s only 10.30), so I will keep this as brief as I can while simultaneously reporting on all the things that are on my sleepy mind…

First, the writing got done. It was my dedicated writing day today (swapped with the usual Thursday for work-related reasons), so again, of course it did, there can be no possible excuses. But it needs to be reported!

And what a great day it was… I turned yesterday’s notes, which I wasn’t sure about, into a whole, new, finished, poem. And yes, I think it works. Of course, it may not be the best thing I’ve ever written, but as a poem it does what I wanted it to, if you see what I mean (I’m thinking about Sylvia Plath’s observation that a poem can be a table or a chair or a pull-along duck… as long as it works, it’s fine). So that’s three brand-new poems in two weeks… I’m ashamed (but also thrilled) to say that’s more than I wrote (poetry-wise) in the whole of 2012. This writing daily lark needs to continue.

I also shoved at the Pembrokeshire coast path draft a bit more, and got a bit closer, I think. It’s hard work, partly because it’s long, and partly because I think it runs the risk of being description/feeling. I’m not entirely sure I know what it’s doing yet, but for now I’m just trusting that if I keep at it, it too will turn into something useful, whether that’s a table or a pull-along duck.

So one of the satellite effects of this writing daily thing is that, as momentum increases, so does my desire to get things out there. I’ve always found submitting poetry to competitions and journals about as painful as writing them in the first place – in part just because of the sheer boring-ness of it, and in part because, yes, I’m lazy and disorganised. But today I submitted four pieces to Magma magazine, and I’m working on my submission to the Faber new poets scheme – ambitious, yes, but why the hell not? It doesn’t cost anything to enter, like most competitions do. I’m also thinking about a submission to a new online journal, and two other upcoming competitions run by Mslexia. The likelihood is that none of these will actually come to anything… but just having a go feels empowering. And grouping all my poems together, in some sort of coherent order, has helped me identify which ones still have slight disfigurements that need fixing, as well as rediscovering some that I’d forgotten about/mislaid after The Great Laptop Theft of 2012.

I’ve been meaning to mention last Thursday’s walk for the last few days but just not had the time to fit it in… I’m tempted to put it off again today but know that if I don’t write about it soon all the freshness and zest will be lost. I’ll keep it brief: I live pretty close to the unbelievably gorgeous Sydenham Hill Wood, the largest remaining tract of the old Great North Wood, which used to stretch from Deptford to Selhurst. It’s now managed as a nature reserve, and it’s a really special place: it’s hard to believe you’re so close to central London when you’re there. Quite by chance I stumbled across an online mention of last Thursday’s evening birdsong walk, and as I’ve been getting into birds a bit recently (in the most casual way possible – mainly just keeping an eye out for them, and enjoying watching them in the trees around my flat) and generally just loving woodland, I went along. Although the wind meant that we didn’t hear a huge amount of birdsong, it was still brilliant. Learning to listen out for and identify a few birds just from their calls was pretty thrilling, and learning about the wood and its history from conservation officer Daniel Greenwood was fascinating. Plus being in woodland at dusk is pretty special by itself. There’s another guided tree identification walk this Thursday, and if I can manage the timings work-wise, I’ll be there. Highly recommended if you just happen to be in South East London.

Swifts weren’t on the menu, but here’s a piece I wrote about listening to them a few years ago, on London Grip.

December+January+February

So much for catching up… and of course with a backlog I never get around to what I’m actually enjoying currently, because I have to clear my plate first. No more! Enough!

For completion’s sake, and then it’s done, here are two months worth of highlights:

December saw the consumption of Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited, Kenneth Branagh’s The Magic Flute, Disney’s Enchanted, the Lee Miller and craft exhibitions at the V&A, an inspiring talk by Jeremy Begbie at the LICC, comedy from Mark Thomas, dinners at Abeno and Canteen, the Barbican’s Jack and the Beanstalk and the Criterion’s 39 Steps, and Christmas atmosphere at Dennis Severs’ House.

January was much quieter, with a new purchase of an old Rufus Wainright album, Rufus Wainright (brilliant); a visit to the new gem gallery at the Natural History Museum (a little disappointing, with too many exhibits ‘temporarily removed’); the Age of Enchantment exhibition at the Dulwich Picture gallery (beautiful); and my first visit of the year to Kew Gardens.

I might as well clear February out of the way too, while I’m at it: two stunning films – both of which have recently won Oscars – No Country for Old Men and There Will be Blood; a jaunt to Barcelona, and to go with it George Orwell’s Fighting in Spain (a very poorly edited – unacceptable from Penguin – extract from Homage to Catalonia); a surprisingly arresting read in Anita Diamant’s The Red Tent; a second visit to Kew; and last night, a spoken word performance from the ever-compelling Saul Williams. Absolutely thrilling.

Here’s to fairer blogging weather in 2008! The poetry project has got off to a good start; I’ll have to see if I can replicate my dedication here…

October

I know, I know. I promised and I didn’t deliver. Honestly, writing this regularly, and keeping it vaguely up to date, is one of my new year vows.

Is anyone still interested in the last three months of 2007? I think I am; I did some lovely things. It was young Daniel’s birthday at the beginning of October, so we headed southwest to sample the various delights of Kew: first, michelin-starred French-style restaurant The Glasshouse (sister restaurant of Chez Bruce and La Trompette). I’d never been before, but it’s one of Daniel’s favourite places to eat in London, and it was pretty special. Sadly I can’t remember what I ate, although I do remember that Dan had one of their signature dishes, the truffled, deep-fried egg, as his starter. It was a real treat, and for food that good, very good value. Highly recommended. Maybe we’ll get a return visit for my birthday next month.

Then a quick trot over the road to the Royal Botanic Gardens, to see the wonderful exhibition of twenty-eight of Henry Moore‘s outdoor sculptures. It was beautiful to see so many large sculptures, all together, outside and in such beautiful surroundings. The exhibition’s on until the end of March, and I’m definitely planning to go again.

Rob Ryan is an artist who specialises in cutting paper, and I went to see an exhibition of the illustrations that make up his book, This is For You, at the Rebecca Hossack Gallery near Fitzroy Square. I’d never heard of him before, and I was utterly captivated by his work: it’s both exquisite and whimsical, and somehow reminds me of the books I used to read when I was little. The book is a love story, of sorts, and although the illustrations are reproduced beautifully, I think his work is much better viewed up close. If only I’d had a spare couple of grand to buy one of his beautiful pieces… maybe I’ll content myself with one of his tiles. Here‘s a lovely article about him and his work from the Telegraph.

October’s one real disappointment was Punchdrunk‘s production of The Masque of the Red Death. I first came across Punchdrunk at the Big Chill festival in 2004, where they put on a totally absorbing version of Woyzek. I’d heard that their 2006 production of Faust was excellent, so I was really looking forward to seeing The Masque, which was staged over the whole of the Battersea Arts Centre. But what started eerily atmospheric and menacing never really went anywhere. The idea is that you happen upon various different parts of the story as you wander round the set, and piece it together as it unfolds around you. In fact the production wasn’t just of Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death, but something like ten of his stories (something I only found out afterwards) and there was never a coherent sense of plot – or really anything much happening that you could make sense of at all. I suppose that was meant to be the point, and I know a lot of people loved it, but I found it increasingly frustrating – a bit of a triumph of style over substance, and too little story spread over too large a (mostly empty, even though beautifully realised) set.

Finally, my djing (well, putting one tune on after the other) debut at the Big Chill Bar, off Brick Lane. Definitely the best-paid two hours I’ve ever worked, and lots of fun, if extremely nervewracking. I suppose the best bit about it was the chance to hear my favourite tunes played out, loudly: I started with some Debussy and ended, of course, with the Wee Papa Girl Rappers. Thanks to Jane for helping me prepare and everyone who came along!

pleasure gardens

Apologies for the month in between postings, after only two posts… Things have been rather hectic for me recently, with house moves, holiday and searching for gainful employment all in the mix. Lots to catch up on.

First off, dinner at the Bonnington Café, where my brother took me to cheer me up after a sadder day last month. It’s a community-run, vegetarian café in Vauxhall – local, non-professional types take it in turn to cook. It can be hit and miss foodwise, but it’s a lovely place, set in a really tranquil part of town, good and cheap… After a dinner of noodles Matt and I swung on the swings in Bonnington square, another community-looked-after spot, near the site of the old Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens (‘a major feature of London for three centuries; a place of curiosity, promenade and play’). It’s just a small square (the physical space created by bombing in the Second World War), but it’s an unexpectedly beautiful, calm haven in an already surprisingly peaceful part of London. And it has a huge wheel at one end:

The wheel at the end of the garden is a classic piece of Industrial Revolution Art dating from the 1860s. It was rescued from a nearby marble factory (under demolition as we were constructing) where it was used to ‘wet cut’ marble. Legend has it that once a year the wheel turns, bringing forth beautiful, crystal clear champagne from the worlds below… a delightful fishing boat that floated above the pergola on a sea of wisteria set sail one midnight eve ne’er to be seen again – but only ever for believers.

Bonnington Square Garden

There’s something achingly beautiful about gardens at night in summertime, and especially trees. This is a beautiful poem by Elaine Feinstein from her most recent collection of poetry, Talking to the Dead (2007, published by Carcanet) – I heard her and Michael Schmidt read at the launch of their respective books back in March, and have been slowly reading both volumes since.

Moving House

We used to travel light. Grandparents knew
how to pack up and go in a single night,
with house spirits in a shoe.
Three generations on, we’ve lost
the knack.

Watching, from bed, a full moon caught
by nets of leaves in a familiar tree
I thought
while we live here, a planetary fruit
belongs to me.

How can I bear to leave that glow behind?
Walking today, I laugh at the conceit;
the niche we make on earth is all we share.
As for the moon, we’ll find
her everywhere.

If only I could learn to travel light; just tonight I finished bringing up the last of my boxes from the cellar, ready to be moved into my new room on Saturday.