To Swim or Not To Swim?

that was the question.

To help us make the decision, I thought it would be a good idea to go down to the docks this afternoon and check out the course for the Great Salford Swim. After puzzling over the geography of the route, we asked at the water sports centre and suddenly it all made perfect sense...

Starting in Huron Basin between The Lowry and Media City - the new location for the BBC...

 ...the course for the swim goes down to Erie Basin

hooks round and left into Fisherman's Wharf...

where the water was clear with the sun on it...

and into Ontario Basin for a final triumphal circuit 

The course is varied and we felt excited enough to sign up, without further ado.

So tomorrow's task is a mile in the pool to get the next two weeks of training off to a cracking start...

Poetry Saturday - Goes Round Comes Round

Saturday Poem today is Miniature Poodle by C. K. Williams. (Bringing the count so far this year to women 10, men 23). As I don't know this poet's work, I had a quick spin round the internet and found him on poets.org. I only had time to listen to one poem so I chose My Mother's Lips. His voice is lovely, I felt a connection and wanted to read more of his poems.

When out and about on my own, as I was this morning in Chester, I can't be trusted not to go into a bookshop. So predictably, I went into Waterstones, only for a look, you understand. 

Of course there was no harm in just popping upstairs for a peep at the poetry, to see what's what. And to see if there was anything by C. K. Williams, which there wasn't. 

Then my eye snagged on Don Paterson, who I have mixed feelings about. The first of his poems I ever met was Imperial in Ruth Padel's 52 Ways of Looking At A Poem. I really didn't like this poem, a bit clever-clever and macho, so I left DP alone for a while. Some time later I read Why Do You Stay Up So Late, which I found beautiful and very moving. I warmed to him when I read Rain, the collection that this poem comes from. 

So today I read the title poem from The Eyes - a collection of DP's versions (as opposed to translations) of  poems by Antonio Machado, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. This made me think of Emily Dickinson's maxim that she knew what was poetry because of the sensation of the top of her head lifting off! 

Spurred on by this experience, I took a look at Landing Light, by now moving towards an inevitable purchase. What finally made me buy Landing Light was that I noticed in it DP's version of Rilke's poem which I featured here yesterday. I just took it as a sign. 

(Skimming through Ruth Padel's book when I started writing this post, I noticed that she analyses Harm by C. K. Williams. I look forward to reading her appreciation of this poet, which I must have overlooked, first time round...)

Archaic Torso of Apollo
after Rilke


You'll never know that terrific head,
or feel those eyeballs ripen on you -
yet something here keeps you in view,
as if his look had sunk inside


and still blazed on. Or the double axe
of the breast couldn't blind you, nor that grin
flash along the crease of the loins
down to the low centre of his sex.


Or else he'd sit, headless and halved,
his shoulders falling to thin air -
not shiver like the pelt of a wolf


or burst from his angles like a star:
for there is nowhere to hide, nothing here
that does not see you. Now change your life.
Don Paterson

Poetry Hunt

If you were struggling to choose a poetry book to read, you might find this article in the Guardian and the readers' comments helpful. I think there are loads of really good suggestions there - volumes I know and love, some I've never heard of, but now feel inspired to seek out.

One such poem which I just tracked down this morning is this by Rilke, translated from German by Stephen Mitchell. Follow this link and you'll also find an illuminating commentary on the poem by Mark Doty. And some links to Mark Doty's poems - which are also worth a look! I always was a big fan of treasure hunts! 

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We cannot know his legendary head

with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso

is still suffused with brilliance from inside,

like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise

the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could

a smile run through the placid hips and thighs

to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced

beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders

and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,

burst like a star: for here there is no place

that does not see you. You must change your life.

Rainer Maria Rilke

translated by Stephen Mitchell

Great North Saga

Two options have been offered in the aftermath of the cancellation - not a postponement - of the Windermere swim: money back or defer entry to the 2011 Great North Swim. We've decided to go for the defer option. 

And we're now weighing up whether to enrol for the Salford Great Swim on 26 September...

In Lakeland in Spirit

So. 4th September and no swim.

I am disappointed and also, in truth, relieved. I don't feel in peak fitness (ha ha). What I mean is that, although the physical act of swimming a mile would have been feasible for me, I didn't feel mentally prepared for the event. Again, if I'd had to do it, I'd have been able to, but I'm glad to have been let off the hook. The organisers will be in touch before Tuesday with some options which are likely to include: an alternative date for Windermere in the next couple of weeks, transfer of place to the Great Swim in Salford Docks (hmm...that  just doesn't seem to have the same ring as Windermere somehow...), transfer of fee to next year's swim, refund of fee. 

Not sure yet which of those I'd go for. 

This week I've been reading Intimates by Helen Farish. This book won the Forward Prize for best first collection in 2005. She had a residency in Grasmere and lectures on the creative writing course at the University of Lancaster. I love the direct style of her poems which are also intriguing and somehow mysterious. I like poems which manage to combine those elements. Here's a poem from the collection which puts us in the Lake District, to mark the day.

Brathay

I love to see the symbols on the map -

the cross, the less-than-4-metres-wide road,

the pub (named even). And I love

to see us as symbols and everything 

we saw: the two men

chess-playing at Skelwith Fold

in back-porch sunshine, mark it

with T for tranquillity. Put a P

in the graveyard for picnic (teabread,

coffee). An A just there on the verge

for sapling (ash) - how much growth

that summer? And the bend in the road

a double S for smiles (the greengold

light, the veneer of wood-water,

the tilt). And a capital J for summer

(joy), and a D for don't

(let this end), and a G and T left behind

at the pub (empty) and a capital U

for God saying I and the entire

universe wish this walk well.

By the Brathay and the underwater

bubbles that began us, an M

for completion by moonlight.

And all over, write, in full:

The Dazzle of this World.

Helen Farish

Intimates (Jonathan Cape, 2005)

The Clue is in the Picture

OMG as the young folk write...

This afternoon I checked out the Windermere weather station and saw that the lake temperature was a balmy 19C. Mmmmm.....just like a warm bath.....The webcam showed marquees going up, carpets running down to the lake and marker buoys setting the course.....everything tickety-boo...

At 18.00 hours a text from Great North Swim HQ arrived : swim postponed due to blue-green algae.

6000 swimmers now making alternative plans for the weekend.....

Pre-Swim Cold Feet

The last time I swam in a 'wild' setting was in Bala a couple of months ago. So I feel a bit daunted by this Saturday's swim in Windermere. Last year I got ready for the Great North Swim gradually by swimming in lakes and the sea on a regular basis in the months leading up to the swim. For one reason or another I haven't done that this year. Consequently, I feel a bit out of practice and nervous. Will I exhaust myself? Will a pike bite my toes? Will I see a dead body if I open my eyes when I do front crawl? Might I have a heart attack? And so on......Today the weather has been beautiful. I've decided to calm down and just let myself take my time on Saturday and enjoy the experience. All will be well.

For inspiration, I spent the afternoon at the Victoria Baths, Manchester's wonderful Water Palace, one of my top ten, no - top five, favourite buildings. All the scaffolding has gone from the Men's First Class Pool to reveal the sparkling, brand new watertight glass roof. I can't wait for the day when the pool will be filled and the public allowed back in.

In the sunshine, the whole building felt so warm and welcoming and the guide who showed us round was very knowledgeable. For the princely sum of £12 I signed up to become a Friend of Victoria Baths. My son enjoyed the tour and would like to have a go in the Aerotone - a prototype stainless steel jacuzzi. I decided to appoint myself as unofficial Poet in Residence, so I'll write some pool-themed poems over the next couple of months.

At this Sunday's Open Day at the baths (5 September) a special new stained glass window in honour of Sunny Lowry will be unveiled at 2pm. I'll be thinking of her when I'm in the lake.

The Family that Swims Together.....

Family outing to Hathersage today as it's our middle daughter's twentieth birthday and we often go there for a swim in the open air pool as part of her celebration. Three generations ranging from 81 down to 6 months - not everyone had a dip, but I think everyone enjoyed the day.

It was a bit chilly, which kept the crowds at bay, but when the sun came out - heaven in a pool. And the water, as always, warm and welcoming. Best bit of course was when the heavens opened. When raindrops hit the water it's truly wonderful to witness and be part of it at their level.

Next Saturday it's the Great North Swim and all our documentation etc arrived today. I feel very unprepared. To paraphrase Scarlett O'Hara, I will think about that tomorrow...  

Picador Poetry Prize

Only a few days left to assemble a sample collection of ten poems for the scrutiny of the judges of the Picador Prize. Incentives to enter this competition include - 

• NO FEE! 
• winner gets £1000 prize and   
• poetry collection published by Picador 
• under the eagle eye of Don Paterson who will edit the book!

Well, you've got to be in to win! Closing date 1 September. 

Through My Letterbox

Shamshad Khan is teaching a course at the Poetry School in Manchester from October. As I don't know her work, I ordered and just received this collection to find out more about her.

I'm really impressed by her poetry and like it very much. It's easy to sit down and read the book from cover to cover. Follow this link to her poem 'pot' (commissioned by the Manchester Museum) which finishes with the following inscription: 
'Dedicated to a Nigerian pot currently incarcerated in the Manchester Museum without charge or access to legal representation'.

Blackberry Time

Back home and poor Benji is ailing so we took him across to Chorlton Meadows, one of his favourite walks. He rallied and his spirits seemed to lift, being back on familiar turf.

By the side of the brook the hedges were laden with blackberries, so I found a bag in my pocket and we filled it in rapid time. Tomorrow we'll get some tasty apples from Unicorn, the organic grocers we're lucky enough to have as our local. I will bake a bramble and apple pie... mmmmm

And here's two blackberry poems to feed our souls

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills

We trekked and picked until the cans were full

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned

Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.

But when the bath was filled we found a fur,

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Seamus Heaney

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

Sylvia Plath

An Old Sea Dog

On a flying visit to Whitley Bay to collect our dog Benji who's been on holiday here while we were away. He will be fourteen in November, although he often behaves like a much younger dog. He's been with us for the past five years since we found him via the internet at an RSPCA dog rescue centre.

Last summer he had a mast cell tumour removed from behind his front left leg and made a great recovery from the surgery. This summer the tumour has come back and is inoperable. Yesterday when we got here, he was pleased to see us but seemed a bit confused, which is not like him. We took him for a walk on the beach and when we lifted him down from the car his legs seemed to crumple under him.

I took this photo of him last December in Tynemouth which is one of our favourite winter spots for walking (dogs not allowed May - September). He barks and whines at the waves, then gets in and has a paddle.

Have you ever seen Dean Spanley? It's an incredible film featuring dogs in a very powerful quirky way, with a great cast and brilliant performance by Peter O'Toole.

Quest for an Even Keel

The last six weeks have been a rollercoaster and I really don't think my feet are properly back on the ground yet.

In the middle of July I did a week-long poetry workshop with Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke at Ty Newydd in Wales. It was just as inspiring and challenging as you'd expect, working with creative tutors and talented participants. I did an Arvon course with Carol Ann two years ago at Moniack Mhor and it took me about six weeks to get back to normal after that, so I did know what to expect. Even so, such an intense and wonderful experience still takes quite a while to come down from afterwards.

Hot on the heels of that, we went off on holiday to Mallorca. We haven't been abroad for three years, so that was another exciting experience, and challenging in its way as I'm not the world's most confident flyer.

The hotel we stayed in had a proper swimming pool - 25m long and 2.6m deep at the deep end. I had the blissful luxury of being able to swim outside - 1K or more nearly every day for 10 days. Given half a chance I think I could get used to that lifestyle...eating, swimming, reading books. Ahhhh dream on.....

Happy Blogday

Today it's exactly one year since I started this blog! 

During the last twelve months I've written 125 posts and received 95 comments. The statcounter informs me that my blog's had 2172 hits - thank you to everyone who's visited or left remarks!

Since last August I've completed the Great North Swim once and hope to do it again in two weeks time. My commitment to swimming has grown stronger and my technique and stamina improved over the past twelve months, but at times I've struggled to swim as frequently as I'd have liked. Lah de dah..... 

I'd say that blogging on a regular basis has certainly helped me to establish more routine in my writing patterns. At times it's offered a very pleasant means of procrastinating and putting off tackling the job in hand, but on the whole, it's helped me to focus in on my poetry writing rhythms and be more more creative and productive. And one of the best things has been swimming around in the blogosphere and appreciating the quirky uniqueness of all the different approaches to blogging. 

Here's to the next twelve months!