It’s Labour dogma that will lose us our place in Europe.
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Europe is in Jeremy Corbyn’s hands
The Devil Rides Ute
I seem to remember I might have promised (or was it threatened) some more poetry. So here it is, another piece from my sojourn down under, inspired by a monstrous vehicle that trundled past me one day while I was walking to the beach. I didn’t have the presence of mind to whip out my camera and take a photo of the actual, offending vehicle, so the one in the picture is the best I could find some days later (not nearly as large, imposing or frightening as the original subject). Brace yourselves…
The Devil Rides Ute
There is a roar that cannot be purely mechanical;
A grating, rattling, rumble that could come from the belly of a dragon.
It shakes the ground, drawing out a terror presumed long dead.
From out of the subconscious, a materialisation of primeval dread,
And my mind slips, desperate for recognition,
Not wanting to acknowledge this ghoulish apparition,
So paralysed with fear, I can’t turn my head,
Until the monster is almost upon me,
And I’m engulfed in an acrid, black fog,
That chokes, and reeks of generations long dead.
And through the dark, cancerous fumes the monster forms,
White-black, with a presence larger than its worldly size,
White chassis, seen grey through the gloom,
Trimmed all around by black;
Black grill, black glass, vertical black exhaust,
Pumping translucent black fumes into a blue sky,
Black bumpers and bars, black tyres; black heart,
The creature moves slowly; in a world apart,
Floating, not rolling, on black wheels as tall as a man,
Or perhaps just as tall as I feel, shaking as I am with confusion,
Disoriented by this frightening intrusion,
Fearing death, overcome by strife, wondering;
What devil rides inside this affront to life?
More menacing still, unseen behind black glass,
What human mind could conceive to ride inside such a threat,
Such a provocation, that causes others to
Regret the invention of internal combustion? Continue reading
Writer’s Retreat
Why is it that ambition always exceeds the reality of what can be achieved? My writing holiday is now a fast-fading memory, and I’m left wondering how I could have imagined I would have got so much done (see my last post). Continue reading
The Mile High Poets Society
I’d like to share with you a poem that I wrote yesterday, while sitting in an aeroplane somewhere over Southern Europe. I say yesterday, but I can’t be sure of that, having crossed several time zones since then. And I say poem, but it’s actually more like a short piece of descriptive (and rather surreal) prose. But I decided to follow what seems to be the trend at the moment by throwing in a few random line-breaks and calling it a poem. After all, what makes something poetry is the same as what makes something art – the creator (of the work, not the fictional ‘Creator’) saying that it is.
So here goes. …Well, actually, I think I should set the scene first – change
the mood from flippant to something more serious. So imagine me in full imaginative flow, gazing out of the window, all starry-eyed, at the beautiful cloudscape below (yes below, and not above). I’m on my way to Singapore, for a few days, and then on to my adopted home-from-home, Australia, and a few weeks spent mostly in beautiful, elemental natural environments – deserted beaches, bush-land teeming with exotic wildlife and, hopefully, some lovely warm weather. I’m going to walk, swim, relax, sketch and, most importantly; write. Perhaps I’m expecting too much from myself, but I’m hoping to complete a first draft of my novel, knock out a few short stories, and perhaps dream myself into some poems too. Absolutely no pressure. But I’ve made a start already. Whether it’s a good start or not, I’ll leave for you to judge.
The Plains of Heaven
A landscape of low white peaks and soft grey shadows extends away into the distance.
The horizon is a band of white,
Evaporating up into ever deepening blue.
Impenetrable cloud, like deep snow on solid ground,
But cotton-wool soft: a soft-toy Antarctic landscape.
I want to get out, I want to fall from this aeroplane,
To plummet through the air into a duvet-soft landing.
I feel as though the cloud must be able to hold me, to welcome me;
To embrace me into the purity of a world untainted by people, unsullied by life.
There’s silence, and stillness, and alone at last,
I lie on my back, cosseted; at peace.
I could stand up, walk, take one leaping step after another,
Bound moon-like across the endless plateau,
Entranced, indefatigable, bouncing along, happy now;
Joyous in the reborn innocence of childhood.
But it’s so comfortable just lying still in my cotton-wool womb.
I can’t bear to move.
My eyelids feel heavy; they close,
The whiteness engulfs me and I fall asleep.
Note: The plains of Heaven is the title of a painting by John Martin , a nineteenth century artist who specialised in very large canvases showing immense landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes; detailed, intense stunning works. Of course, he was working before aeroplanes had been invented, so he could only imagine what I was fortunate enough to experience
It’s Art if I Say it is…
Last month I visited the newly extended and refurbished Whitworth Gallery in Manchester. (Whitworth Gallery) I remember the Whitworth as an impressive red brick Victorian building with an interesting collection.
The Whitworth now is a curious monster. The Victorian building is still there, as impressive as ever. The new extensions are a strange mix, in places blocky, clumsy, ugly; in others elegant, light, ethereal. The setting – Whitworth Park – is beautiful, and sitting in
Whitworth Gallery Cafe
the new glass-walled café is like sitting up in the tree canopy. The cakes aren’t half bad either. The new gallery areas are light and open but quirky, with balconies and views into adjoining rooms and to the outside – the kind of spaces that make you feel like exploring. Some of the materials used are lovely, but there were rather too many different materials, which made the place look a bit busy – not really what you want from an exhibition space.
The main problem for me though was the work, and the way it was displayed. They’ve concentrated on contemporary artwork, with the historical collection treated with something like contempt. Some of the new stuff was very good. Some of it was interesting. And some, well… One of the ‘pieces’ was a paint splattered overall hung on the wall. Brilliant! You finish creating your artwork, take off your overalls and think to yourself ‘you know what, the people at the gallery are such mugs I reckon I can probably sell them that as well’.
On the wall opposite was a crummy, badly executed tapestry by that Tracey Emin. It showed (just about) a woman with her legs open and coins flowing out from her you-know-what (I’d use the correct gynaecological term, but I’m worried about this post being blocked by the search engines). I guess she’d say it’s not about having a talent for the media, so much as communicating a message. The message in this case is presumably that women are, and have been, exploited sexually. Well, wow Tracey, I’d have never have thought of that if I hadn’t seen your tapestry. Next to one of the works, there was a space on the wall. On the floor, beneath the space, was a dustsheet. The area was cordoned off by a barrier, as if there was some decorating being done. Both dustsheet and barrier each had their own labels – both were exhibits. By the side of the cordon, on the floor, was a walkie-talkie. I never did find out whether the walkie-talkie was an exhibit or had been left there by a member of staff while they went off to the loo. It didn’t have a label. But maybe that was a statement by the artist. Or maybe the non-existent label was a separate artwork in itself. That Duchamp fellow really started something.
All of the recent artworks were very carefully displayed, all had plenty of wall space. And then we came to the collection of watercolours. Crammed in with no more than half an inch between them, they completely filled one wall and half filled a second. They weren’t labelled individually, they were numbered, with a sheet of paper listing an artist and title for each number. Somewhere in the middle were half a dozen or so Turners and one of William Blake’s best known works (The Ancient of Days). Which were, apparently, an embarrassment to the gallery. They might as well have left them in the storeroom and had done with it. And this from an institution that won the Art Fund’s prize for Museum of the Year 2015! Just goes to show how much some of us are swimming against the tide. In fairness to the Whitworth, some of the modern exhibits were very interesting, and some showed great technical ability by the artists. Though, with a few exceptions, none of them were particularly aesthetically pleasing, which to me is an important consideration (being a fan of William Morris). I used to draw once. And paint a bit too. The only artwork I get to do these days is decorating our living room. Which is now, thankfully, finished. So I can hang up my overalls. Hang on a minute, I’ve just had an idea…
First Reading
Last week, I did the first ever public reading of my work. It was at the monthly meeting of the Cardiff Humanists group, to which I’ve been going for more than a year now (Cardiff Humanists). The theme for this month’s meeting was ‘Poems & Pints’ (the meetings are held upstairs in the Rummer Tavern, opposite the castle).
I’m not really a poet. I did write some poetry when I was a teenager, but when I took up the guitar and started writing music, I moved from poetry to song lyrics. But when I heard the Cardiff Humanists were doing a poetry night, I thought that I ought to have a go. My natural instinct would be to hide in the shadows and let the more out-going people enjoy the attention. But writers are expected to be comfortable reading their work out to groups of people. And while my first novel may not have found a publisher, the second is well on its way, and it’s going to be better and, I hope, more saleable than the first. So I thought it was about time I discovered whether I stand any chance of coping with the publicity events I’ll undoubtedly be expected to attend should I be fortunate enough to get published.
I was a little nervous, and very tempted to keep my head down; not let on that I’d brought something to read out. I know most of the people there a bit now, but that didn’t make it any easier. In fact, it probably made it more difficult – it can be easier when you’re addressing strangers. I felt somewhat isolated too, because it turned out I was alone amongst the group in reading my own work (I had hoped there might be at least one other writer there!) So it felt like I was sticking my neck out a bit. I imagined people might think I was being pretentious.
I think the reading went reasonably well, and I got some good feedback on the poem. I was a bit timid, a bit too flat, too serious, and I know I didn’t look up nearly enough. But it’s a start. With more practice, I think I should be able to develop a more confident reading style, and learn to properly engage with an audience. I suppose the next step would be to get myself down to an open mic poetry night somewhere. I will just have to run off a few poems first…
PS: I’m not going to reproduce my Atheist-themed poem (called, ‘Things I’d like to say to the Aggressively Religious’) here, for fear of upsetting any of you who might be un-aggressively religious.
The Equality of Ignorance
I went to see the film ‘Suffragette’ at the weekend. It was definitely worth seeing, but a bit grim. And why did they have to film so much of it with a hand-held camera? Some of the scenes were so jerky I could hardly see what was happening, or bear to look at the screen, because it was making me feel ill.
Still, a good film, all the same. It’s frightening to think how bad things could have been for women (and for working people) less than a hundred years ago. It’s an inspiring story, but at the same time, it made me wonder just what the point was; why so many brave women put themselves in the way of harm and suffered so much in order to try and get the vote (which took another ten years from the time at which the film was set). There’s a scene in the film where the main character’s husband, a very conventional, unsympathetic, uncommunicative, monarchy loving man, asks her what she’ll do with it, if she gets it (meaning; what will she do with the vote). And she says’ ‘same as you’. Which I took to mean that she was going to give it away to a representative of the privileged few, so that they could continue to oppress her and people like her. And I wondered what’s really changed. Because that’s exactly what still happens – the unthinking masses, fooled by lies and misrepresentations in the media, give their votes to representatives of the privileged few, who use it to continue to oppress them. So the suffragettes achieved equality in voting rights, but it seems to me to be an equality of ignorance. And until we have an honest, fair, bi-partisan media, as well as honest, fair politicians, I can’t see that anything is really going to change.
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Heaven knows I’m miserable now…
Steven Morrissey, not content with persuading Penguin to publish his autobiography as a classic, has now also got them to publish his debut novel. Stephen’s initials are, of course, S & M which, if the critics are to be believed, and we also assume he suffers for his art, is very appropriate. The reviews I’ve read are likely to have left ‘This Charming Man’ reeling (around the fountain). Who knows, he may even know how Joan of Arc felt, as the flames rose from her Roman prose and her literary career started to melt.
We’ve got a lot in common, me and Steven. He started out writing lyrics, like me. And then he moved on to fiction, like me. He’s a vegetarian, like me. And he’s had critical acclaim. OK, so it stops there. My lyrics are more miserable than his though:
A red sun rises on a grey world,
A torch to light the fires of hell,
Spread the rosy glow across a pallid cheek,
Rekindle life that pain may grow.
More miserable, but not quite as amusing. In my defence, I was on the way to work when I wrote that one.
Steven Morrissey
I can’t say I’ve got too much sympathy for him, despite the panning his novel has received. The autobiography was fair enough. Though it was a bit of a cheek (and rather egotistical)to insist on it being published as a classic. And it could have done with some editing – all that mithering on about the people he didn’t like got a bit tedious. It’s all well and good to feel sorry for yourself when you’re still waiting to be discovered, but when you’ve had a fabulous and long lasting-career, it isn’t allowed. But the novel; that’s just playing on celebrity. I blame the publisher, not the writer. When an unknown author sends them a manuscript, they can barely be bothered to give it a look on the off chance it might actually be good. But when someone as famous as Morrissey comes knocking, pound signs ring up in their eyes. They know there’s a ready-made market – his millions of adoring fans across the world – who will buy it whether it’s any good or not. Did they even bother to read it before firing up the presses? Did they bother to edit it? Did they care whether the reviews were going to be good or bad? It’s all publicity, after all. But then, what do you expect from a company who can’t decide whether they want to make books or chocolate biscuits?
Perhaps they should have had the integrity to let him know it wasn’t very good (the book, not the biscuit). Then, like the rest of us, he could have gone back and started again. If he has the courage to write another novel after the panning this one is getting, he might do well to elicit some help (if you’re reading this Stephen my old darling, my rates are very reasonable).
At this point I should probably admit that I haven’t actually read the novel. Perhaps the critics are bad judges. Or maybe they’re just bitter about a Muso muscling in on their literary territory. And it’s not all bad. Apparently the book is up for an award. Although it is the bad sex award. Apparently Stephen was a little too florid with his euphemisms. Always a mistake. When you’re writing a sex scene, you should have the courage of your convictions and call a thingy a thingy.
Do I look like Roald Dahl?
Recently, I submitted one of my stories to a popular writing magazine. I’ve not had a great deal of success so far (despite some positive feedback) so I’m hoping for a change of fortune.
The magazine in question has some very fixed, rather strange ideas of what they expect from a short story, which goes against the more open, more creative expectations of many publishers. In particular, they seem unable to consider any story that doesn’t have a twist in its tale. Which is fine, because a clever twist can be very effective, but it seems to me that there are some serious flaws in their approach. Firstly, when writing a ‘twist-in-the-tale’ story there are only limited scenarios to choose from, so it’s difficult to be original; difficult to come up with a new idea. Secondly, it’s probably the hardest type of story to write – you need to take great care in order to make it work – which is maybe not ideal for a magazine that aims to encourage amateurs. The third problem is that a twist is designed to take the reader by surprise, but when you know that every story a magazine publishes will have one, it ceases to work – from the moment you start reading you’re looking for the twist. The only surprise would be if there isn’t one. My penchant for pet names has led me to refer to the magazine as ‘Tales of the Unexpected’ – some of you may be old enough to remember the television series of that name.
Strange really. Many years ago, not long after I wrote my first short story, I did some research to find out what publishers expected from a short story. Most of the commentaries that I found, which were mostly from publishers and writers, suggested that you don’t need to create a story in the traditional sense; that it should be looked at as a piece of short, creative writing. You might create a fully formed story, or you might just describe a situation, a character or an event. Or you might use it to put across a philosophical idea, or to describe thought processes. In fact, pretty much anything goes – creative writing, rather than short story. It’s odd that different publishers should have such different ideas of what is acceptable within a particular format. Even stranger that each of them should feel confident enough of their own assessment to assert it with absolute confidence as the correct viewpoint.
The story I submitted does have a twist, of a kind, but only time will tell as to whether it’s enough for the editor of this particular magazine.
And the award for disservices to music goes to…
…Rap
Trends in pop music are traditionally very short-lived. Be-Bop, Rock and Roll, Mersey beat, The Mods, Glam Rock and many others had their few years and then slipped into minority interest. In the 1970’s, Disco inexplicably appeared to have achieved world domination, only to become, just a few years later, an embarrassing memory. Punk exploded into pop culture in the late 1970’s like a saviour, promising to sweep away all the self-indulgent dross that preceded it. But by 1981 Becki Bondage, of the band Vice Squad, was already singing, ‘People say that Punk is dead, but we’re still dying.‘ After Punk’s exit from the mainstream, new fads came to the fore, each in turn then fading out and being replaced. There have been revivals – Rockabilly, for instance, was good clean fun. But all of these trends had one thing in common – they didn’t last for very long.
A Wrapper… A Rapper…
…One of these has a useful purpose.
But just as the firecracker that was Punk was at it’s peak, another musical form was propelled into the mainstream. In New York, a few rough diamonds who couldn’t sing decided they’d try talking over music instead, usually in a rather aggressive manner (perhaps they were angry because they couldn’t sing). The music that they ‘talked to’ was generally crap. Probably because they were embarrassed about this, they knocked the ‘c’ off the front, and Rap was born. Three and a half decades later, it’s still going strong. Why? There have been some truly dreadful trends in pop music, but also a few that were rather good, and which might have been expected to persist. They didn’t, but Rap, which must be a contender for the worst form of popular music in the entire history of popular music, did. Again – why?
I remember Ben Elton, many years ago, doing a sketch on Rap in which he made the point that it’s nothing more than rhythmic boasting. Years later we had Sasha Baron Cohen parodying rappers with his character Ali G, which should have been enough to make any self respecting rapper turn their cap the right way around and start behaving like a normal human being, rather than a retard with attitude. Just what is it that still persuades a white boy from Birmingham to dress like an idiot (trousers with gusset hanging down to their knees, over-sized trainers, etc.) adopt the accent and speech patterns of a three-year-old Jamaican child, and hold their hands like they’ve got the worst case of arthritis you’ve ever seen? As anyone who actually suffers from arthritis will tell you, it most certainly isn’t ‘wicked’. Or maybe those ridiculous and slightly threatening hand gestures actually mean something – a kind of counter-culture sign language. In any case, someone should tell them that it’s rude to point.
Thirty-odd years later, and Rap is still going strong. Young people apparently still think ‘dat it’s like; wikid man, innit?’ And older people too. Liz Kendall, candidate for the Labour Party leadership, who as a teenager was apparently into Wham! (A 1980’s pop combo featuring George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley) now claims she listens to a lot of Rap. In the past, the one thing that would be sure to kill off a musical form would be middle-aged politicians lining up to tell you how much they like it. Politicians will do anything that they think will help them to get power. Even listen to (c)rap music.
It’s not that all of the music is bad (though most of it is). It’s just that having someone talking over the top of music doesn’t generally work. It wouldn’t be so bad if what they were saying (I won’t call it lyrics) was worth hearing. I know there are a few genuine poets, but most Rap (the words) is at best facile, and at worst, homophobic, sexist, and an incitement to crime. The mindless violence of Punk (‘Smash it up, Smash it up!’) seems like harmless fun beside this pernicious, bigoted nonsense. Punk was born to save pop music from it’s apparently inevitable fate. Sadly Punk, just like Jesus, changed nothing, and pop music is now closer than ever to disappearing up it’s own backside. We need a revolution. Or alternatively, we could just let it happen. Wicked!
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