Why swimming is sublime ......

Tynemouth beach again at New Year

My writing has dried up  - has my pilot light blown out ?
At least I'm back in the pool - twice a week at the moment - and articles like this one just make me all the keener. Incredible writing.

To Boldly Go .....

Not bold enough for the Official TBR Challenge - some of the rules are a wee bit strict for me - I am going to have my own little Unofficial TBR Challenge in 2014.

I've chosen twelve neglected books off my shelves that I've not got round to reading yet. Now that the MA is done I commit to reading these over the next twelve months - and maybe then I'll post some reviews of them here.

I find writing reviews challenging - having to express OPINIONS !!! But I do want to get more confident at it, so this is a bold resolution.

And as for the chosen dozen - perched on my ironing board - here they are (not necessarily in reading order) :

1    How To Be A Woman - Caitlin Moran

2    Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal - Jeanette Winterson

3     East of Eden - John Steinbeck

4     Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel

5     The Golden Gate - Vikram Seth

6     The Secret Scripture - Sebastian Barry

7     The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks - Rebecca Skloot

8     Reality, Reality - Jackie Kay

9    Waterlog - Roger Deakin

10    Mary Swann - Carol Shields

11    Stepping Stones: Interviews With Seamus Heaney - Dennis O'Driscoll

12    The Invention Of Everything Else - Samantha Hunt

Now I must away to Jools Holland and his Hootenanny - 

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYBODY !!!!!

Semester's End

Tynemouth Beach at dusk - or was it dawn???

I handed in my dissertation on 2 December so that was the official end of my MA course at the Centre for New Writing. A collection of 21 poems, some new, some not so new.

My library books were due to go back in January, but this week I received an email saying they have to go back today. I can't bear giving library books back - some of them have been on an extended loan, no-one else has wanted them so I've been able to keep on renewing Philip Larkin, Elizabeth Bishop, Kathleen Jamie, Robert Lowell. No matter that I don't look at them that often, I just like them being there. The empty half shelf where they've lodged makes me sad and excited. Now I'll have a place for the pile beside my bed, and room for some new books to gather. Maybe I'll start writing again.

The process makes me think of the TV programme Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners which I've watched (obsessively) for the last couple of months. The people whose houses need clearing/cleaning inevitably have issues to do with grief and loss. The cleaners whose houses are spotless also have issues around grief/loss. Some days I think I fall in the hoarder category, some days I think I'm a cleaner.

Perhaps the library is doing me a favour recalling those books ... it was never going to be easy ... and now that I've lifted Robert Lowell off the shelf I've discovered this poem, which I'd probably not have found if the library hadn't ordered me to return him ...



The Mermaid Children

In my dream, we drove to Folkestone with the children,
miles of ashflakes safe for their small feet;
most coasts are sand, but this had larger prospects,
the sea drained by the out-tide to dust and dunes
blowing to Norway like brown paper bags.
Goodbye, my Ocean, you were never my white wine.
Only parents with children could go to the beach;
we had ours, and it was a brutal lugging,
stopping, teasing them to walk for themselves.
When they rode our shoulders, we sank to our knees;
later we felt no weight and left no footprints. ...
Where did we leave them behind us so small and black,
their transistors, mermaid fins and tails,
our distant children charcoaled on the sky?

Robert Lowell (The Dolphin)

Lines Underwater

One of my poems - My Father's People - has just been published in this gorgeous anthology about mermaids. The writing in the book is complemented by the most wonderful artwork - I am thrilled to be featured in such an appealing and irresistible collection! I would say that, wouldn't I?! But find a copy and see for yourself - treasures from the deep!

Ieuan Edwards - My Underwater Love

Gone fishin'

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish

and held him beside the boat

half out of the water, with my hook

fast in a corner of his mouth.

He didn’t fight.

He hadn’t fought at all.

He hung a grunting weight,

battered and vulnerable

and homely. Here and there

his brown skin hung in strips

like ancient wall-paper,

and its pattern of darker brown

was like wall-paper :

shapes like full-blown roses

stained and lost through age.

He was speckled with barnacles,

fine rosettes of lime,

and infested 

with tiny white sea-lice,

and underneath two or three

rags of green weed hung down.

While his gills were breathing in

the terrible oxygen

––the frightening gills

fresh and crisp with blood,

that can cut so badly––

I thought of the coarse white flesh

packed in like feathers,

the big bones and the little bones,

the dramatic reds and blacks

of his shiny entrails,

and the pink swim-bladder

like a big peony.

I looked into his eyes 

which were far larger than mine

but shallower, and yellowed

the irises backed and packed

with tarnished tinfoil

seen through the lenses

of old scratched isinglass.

They shifted a little, but not

to return my stare.

––It was more like the tipping

of an object toward the light.

I admitted his sullen face,

the mechanism of his jaw,

and then I saw

that from his lower lip

––if you could call it a lip––

grim, wet, and weapon-like,

hung five old pieces of fish-line,

or four and a wire leader

with the swivel still attached,

with all their five big hooks

grown firmly in his mouth.

A green line, frayed at the end

where he broke it, two heavier lines,

and a fine black thread

still crimped from the strain and snap

when it broke and he got away.

Like medals with their ribbons

frayed and wavering,

a five-haired beard of wisdom

trailing from his aching jaw.

I stared and stared

and victory filled up

the little rented boat,

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine

to the bailer rusted orange,

the sun-cracked thwarts,

the oar-locks on their strings,

the gunnels––until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow !

And I let the fish go.

Elizabeth Bishop

from North and South (1946)

Picture This

I'm excited to be reading some of my poems at the Didsbury Arts Festival this year - this is the publicity photo for the event.

Beltane - again!

Today Boots offered me Double Points for the whole of May - my birthday month -
Woohoo!!
I might go a bit quiet again now because I'm going to concentrate on Underwater Gardener for a while.

Is this the way to Amaryllis?

Who are you? I hear you whisper.

Apologies for such long absences. Over the last twelve months I've not done one single outdoor swim. And very few indoor ones, come to think of it. Also, precious little writing.
However, I have been putting effort into promoting my back catalogue, finding homes for poems already written. It has been a bit of a wilderness time, but productive, and a few of my poems are now very well placed. I feel quite the Mrs Bennett, with my daughters out there, making their way in the world.

I also know, if I didn't before, that when I'm swimming, my writing benefits and vice versa. This dry period has seemed like a  phase I've needed to go through, so now I feel like I want to be writing more again, and swimming. I hope that means I'll be posting on the blog again. I've continued reading blogs, all the while, but writing is the exercise that begets more writing.........

I've also had some good adventures, been across to Dun Laoghaire twice, soaking up the literature festival last September, and enjoying a number of great poetry events back here in England. Our eldest daughter (real life, not a poem - Happy Birthday Nell !!) is also on an adventure at the moment, teaching English in South Korea, so as you might imagine, that is keeping us right on the edge of our seats .......

All in all, a lively time, even if somewhat quiet here on the western front .......

Why the strange title for this post? Oh, I bought an amaryllis bulb at Xmas and the photo above shows it now. It's so beautiful I have to sing that song (customized words) every time I walk past it. As I seem to have lost my way of late, Amaryllis seems as good a direction to be heading in as any ........

Two Sink Three Float

Not long back from seeing Two Sink Three Float in St Peter Basin at Salford Quays.
Part of the Urban Moves dance festival here in Manchester. Don't miss it if it's at a festival near you.
Tonight - thanks to the heavens opening - we went home as wet as the dancers. And happy!

You might be interested.....

.....that I've started a new blog! With a theme of gardening.

Follow the link to take a peek!

Turn Moss Lake

If you look on a map you won't find this lake but it's not a figment of my imagination. When the rain is heavy - as it's been of late - this lake appears on the meadows where I walk Dash. It was beautiful yesterday with the seagulls competing with the crows to make an almighty racket.

If you're a poet with some poems on the theme of water, you might be interested in this competition. It's only £5 to enter up to 3 poems, which seems quite reasonable as the cash prizes are good. The judges are John Burnside and WN Herbert, but the closing date is this coming Friday - so get your skates (or fins) on!

December Dip

Rain, rain, rain will it ever stop?

You'd think I'd be used to it after all these years in Rainy City. 

We gave up the battle to stay dry this afternoon and row - row - rowed our boat down to the Aquatic Centre to swim a mile. 

Finish the year as you mean to start the next one - that's what I say! 

So here's to a great year of swimming and writing in 2012!! 

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND GOD BLESS US ONE AND ALL!!

A (Student) Poet's Life

I've not dropped off the face of the earth in case you were wondering.

This term I've started studying for an MA in poetry at the Centre for New Writing at Manchester University, so there've been major new demands on my time and a steepish learning curve adjusting to the (part-time) student life...

This semester's module has been Writing Poems with John McAuliffe. I've already met John at Poetry School - as I've said before he's a knowledgeable and inspiring teacher. 

The routine has been one poem a week, come rain or shine, submitted to the group by 12 noon Friday for critiquing. There's been a wealth of articles about poetry to read and digest, and guest workshops and readings by Sean O'Brien, Lavinia Greenlaw, John Glenday and Michael Schmidt. 

There's also been a series of very inspiring presentations by the centre's new professor, Colm Toibin. In one of these he talked at some length about Elizabeth  Bishop and her amazing poem The Moose. Colm is such an engaging speaker, after his talk I just wanted to go away and write - job done, I'd say, for a professor of writing!

So now, from my folder of ten workshopped poems I have to present a portfolio of six - the first draft, the final draft and a short commentary. This will be my assessment for this term's work, so they need to be the best possible as they'll be reviewed by three experienced readers. John also wants us to get them out into the world, so they'll be winging their way to poetry mags by the middle of January.....

But for now, a moment or two to get my breath back and catch up with life, maybe a bit more time for blogging - who knows?!! 

Silver Birch

Our neighbours have given us a Himalayan Birch as a silver wedding present - how lovely is that?! Last year under the weight of all the snow, our beautiful blue Ceanothus which we'd trained into a tree shape, split down the middle. So we'll probably plant the birch in that spot. 

But I like where it's currently standing - in the hall, scraping the ceiling. It gives the place a woodland feel...

Birches


When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 


Robert Frost