Pop up Poetry

 THE ROOM was dark, the seats were hard, the drinks were ice cold.
The people were eager, impatient, excited and ready to roll.
And out of nowhere, came the Compare with a mic in his hand.
He belted out a ‘Hello’ and welcomed us to the show with a bit of stand-
up comedy…

Unlike the pop up poetry performers, my rhyming skills are limited so I’ll stick to my usual conversational tone and save the embarrassment.
4Talent award winner Luke Wright compared and performed a selection of poems from his new book ‘High Performance.’ His use of pun, whit and comedy weaved throughout his very intriguing  storytelling. It’s amazing how the lives of ordinary people and grey places like Chip Shops can turn into a Chaucerian-prologue-rhyming couplets-type thing: Very impressive.
Laura Dockril took us to the theatre! She ensured we were all awake (and a tiny bit frightened) with her very loud, extremely vibrant, beautifully dramatized works. She had us sitting at the edge of our seats.
Finally, Kate Tempest strolled on and tricked us! Said, she wouldn’t be very loud and charismatic due to a sore throat but that was far from what we experienced. She belted out her poetic social commentaries in the form of emceeing. She had us all giggling at jokes (she didn’t intend to make). Tempest was a glittering piece of inspirational talent. It’s no wonder she was chosen to take the jam packed event to the finishing line.
We look forward to the next show on 7th July and we look forward to seeing you there.
For more information visit www.southbankcentre.co.uk/udderbelly.

A poem by Keith Shadwick

Keith Shadwick was a jazz musician, music critic, author of numerous books on music and a poet. He came up with the original idea for the staging of Southbank Centre’s ‘Ancient Mariner’ – premiered this July at London Literature Festival. He died of cancer a year ago. Here is one of his poems, written one summer in Italy.

‘at Umbertide’ – by Keith Shadwick

at Umbertide
the purple of the primroses –
aromas delicate and close
in the still noon sun.

I sit in the veranda’s shadow
the breeze on my bare back
skin cooling
seeking in each tree leaf a pattern of decay
each mountain
an imperceptible crumble

each heat haze
a question as to the day’s conclusion

the fields
green & khaki below
verticals and obliques
patrolled by birds of prey
a kestrel hunting field mice
amid hot air spirals

around the house
wasps work at destroying the wooden beams
supporting each veranda
the terraces slowly undermined
as bird cries echo across the hill
into the plain below
measuring its limitless expanse
& leaves drop from darker trees.

Michela Wrong – Mama Africa

International journalist Michela Wrong talked about her new book, It’s Our Turn To Eat and her experiences living in Kenya at Royal Festival Hall. In her new book, she writes about a Kenyan anti-corruption leader. The title derives from a phrase she heard throughout her time in Kenya. As she explains, it means people ‘eating the resources of the land, including food’. She points out that when people get into power, due to tribal tensions, the people in power look after their own tribe and leave everyone else out.

While listening to Wrong talk about her time in Africa, I couldn’t help but feel unsettled as she generalised the whole of Africa. This feeling grew worse when questions were taken from the floor. One lady, whilst praising the book, calling it ‘well crafted’, she felt that some of Wrong’s opinions in the book were patronising to her, as a woman from Zimbabwe. She goes on to give examples of statements that she felt were patronising. I felt Wrong was unconvincing answering the claim. She tried to suggest that African people don’t tell jokes, instead they laugh about proverbs. Now, speaking as an African whose parents were born and raised in Ghana, West Africa, I’ve never ever heard them utter a proverb. In fact, they don’t even know any. And this is the same for all the African people I know.

Africa is a vast place with many cultural differences between countries, even between tribes. Michela Wrong said: ‘One shouldn’t generalise Africa, unfortunately, we all do’. No, we ‘all’ don’t, and even if we did, it doesn’t make it right.

A literature festival? In London?

Derived from the Middle English, festive, via Old French and Medieval Latin festivalis, from Latin festivus, in turn from festus and with its roots in the Indo-European dhēs, the word festival conjures many images, of lavish banquets certainly; of a community and communities coming together in celebration; of times of jointly enjoyed joyousness and rejoicing. It is a word that brings to mind mutual merriment, eating and drinking, fun and storytelling.

A literature festival should thus be a banquet of books and of those who write them, read them, publish them, sell them, buy them and love them; a coming together of the various tribes of the word; a jamboree of and for the tellers of tales. And it is the tales and the storytelling that are the key factors here.

Books themselves are of course wonderful; from quotidian containers of necessary information to treasured objets that are adored, collected and venerated as art forms in their own right. But while the book as an article is to be admired it is merely the plate on which the food is served. When we speak of cuisine it is the work of the chef we have in mind, however much we appreciate and admire the art of the china-ware. A literature festival should celebrate those chefs-des-mots, those whose artistry and ability in story-telling is served on the plate of the page.

London has played host to many inchoate literature, literary and book festivals over the years. But none of them have actually quite stuck. There is of course much competition for attention in London. Every night in this cultural and cultured capital is a menu of artistic endeavour that almost defies selection. It is also a big city and if a festival is to work it has to have a heartland, somewhere that the community that makes the festival can call home. Multi-centred festivals almost never work; they defy the very nature, the very essence of ‘coming together’ that defines festive sentiment.

So a literature festival in London? Fraught with difficulties, as many before now have found.

But hold on. The last two weeks have seen something rather curious happen.

It seems that a heartland has been found and founded in the Southbank Centre. For a fortnight there has been real sense of community among the authors, organisers and audiences who have contributed to and attended a fascinatingly diverse sixty plus events. Across generation gaps, across cultures and across tables, over food, over drink and over time I have seen new friendships being made and old friendships being renewed. I have watched audiences laugh and cry, get angry and been made happy, be inspired and be questioned by philosophers and scientists, poets and authors, singers and players, adults and children. In short I have seen a diverse group of communities come together, form a whole new community and then feast on a veritable banquet of stories in all their forms.

The people who made all this happen have been mentioned in previous posts and I’ll spare their blushes here, but I will tell you this: London now has a Literature Festival worthy of the title, a proper literature festival with a beating heart, a good literature festival with an enormous sense of community. It has in Southbank a true centre, a cathedral for the celebration of stories. In only its third year something remarkable has happened and the fire – so often the focus, the heart, of any gathering of warmth and integrity– has truly caught and it can only be a matter of time before the smoke signals are seen and it becomes ‘word-famous’ and world famous.

Yes you read that right, but I’ll write it again; at last London has a Literature Festival, it is the London Literature Festival and it is indeed a capital thing.

As ever, if you have been, thanks for reading. It’s been a blast.

Paul Blezard

…ends/

Bit Of Verbal

‘Bit of Verbal’ – by producer/performer Rupert Smith of Southbank Centre’s House of Homosexual Culture
(and do have a look at the photos of the performance in our previous blogs).

Don’t forget the Stonewall@40 event at London Literature Festival tonight!

It was with some trepidation that I decided to present a ‘poetry/spoken word’ event as part of the House of Homosexual Culture’s offering at the London Literature Festival. Generally speaking, I can’t stand live poetry, and I’ve sat through enough ghastly spoken word pieces to put me off for life. But, in the interests of stepping outside my comfort zone, I put together a programme of performers who, I thought, might redefine what a poetry event could be, and at the same time challenge a few of my own prejudices.

And boy, did we succeed. We had rappers, singers, comedians, performance artists and even – yes, even a poet or two. Ste McCabe opened the show with three angry, articulate songs, his polemical lyrics underpinned by fuzz guitar and drum machine. Ste is a real star of the new queer performance scene; his new album, Hate Mail, is well worth a listen. Next up was VG Lee, a novelist who has recenty branched out into stand-up, who kept kept us laughing with her account of a recent failed relationship before reading a great piece about a disastrous trip to the movies.

Gerry Potter used to be known as Chloe Poems, a gingham-clad ‘lady’ poetess who was a star of the 90s/00s performance scene. Gerry’s now ditched the drag, and found his own voice with fantastic accounts of growing up as a queer boy in the toughest part of Liverpool – and I think Gerry’s performance cured me for all time of my aversion to reading aloud. Closing the first half was Jacqui Applebee, who gave us a mouthwatering account of a sex-and-food orgy in New York before reading her fantastic, show-stopping orgasm poem, Yes Means Yes!

We opened the second half with the one and only David Hoyle, the biggest star of the gay performance and comedy scene today, who gave us his unique interpretation of Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale (‘how much was owed to this nightingale?’) and a selection from Wilfred Owen. David must win the prize for the greatest outfit in the festival: he looked like the lesbian love child of Yootha Joyce and Bette Davis. Finally, rapper QBoy returned to the festival to raise the temperature with a very sexy performance of tracks from his new album, Moxie – lyrics, messages, dance moves and very nice abs. Ste and David sang us out with a unique duet of Ste’s Huyton Scum vs David’s rendition of Climb Ev’ry Mountain.

I challenge anyone else in the Festival to name a more entertaining event. We played to a packed house in Spirit Level, and we’ve had fantastic audience feedback. I hope we’ve proved that lesbian and gay people do poetry with as much talent and imagination as anyone.

Of psyches, ids and egos


‘SUSIE ORBACH INTERVIEWS…Andrew O’Hagan and Will Self.’
The first in a new strand at Southbank Centre on ‘Psychoanalysis And The Arts.’

Wednesday 15th July, Queen Elizabeth Hall
By Rosie Goldsmith

A world-famous psychoanalyst and feminist writer and two internationally acclaimed novelists and social commentators: we knew we were in for a stimulating evening of debate. But about half way though, the debate moved upwards, outwards and beyond our expectations: Andrew O’Hagan plunged into a dark corner of his writer’s soul and declared:

‘Most writers don’t have a personality’. And then: ‘Will Self is probably more stable than I am!’ and thirdly: ‘Novelists are a species engaged in self-annihilation’.

You could have heard collective jaws drop in Queen Elizabeth Hall. Even an impartial Susie Orbach raised her eyebrows. Rich pickings for a therapist there, I thought. In fact Andrew O’ Hagan did once take one of his ‘characters’ – on paper – round to Susie’s consulting room to ask her verdict on the character. He explained: ‘not for myself’.

Andrew O’Hagan – who read to us from his work-in-progress, a novel which goes inside the fantasy mind of a female analyst – then again shook up the audience by saying: ‘Writing is an advanced form of hysteria’.

In answer to an audience question, Andrew said he had not had therapy.
Will Self, though, said he’d had every possible version of it (although he’d been ‘therapy-free for ten years now’!) and admired it because, ‘ it helps turn hysterical madness into commonplace unhappiness.’

Susie Orbach – careful not to analyze the two boys (not her role tonight) -commented that from her point of view, writers and artists are often afraid of being analyzed because they may lose some of their creative madness. ‘In fact,’ she says, ‘we can help them to express it better.’

Will Self read from his book, ‘Liver’- about a woman dying from cancer and in a plane on the way to Switzerland to visit the Dignitas clinic (in order to end her life) is involved in a plane crash. ‘Is it possible to feel fear of death even if you are about to commit suicide?’ he asks. It seemed, yes.

These three provocative thinkers and eloquent speakers then pushed us all to consider the 20th/21st century novel, which they agreed has become ‘entwined with psychoanalysis’. But is that combination benign symbiosis or does one feed off the other?

‘Most novels today are just ‘Id-less!’ Andrew proclaimed. And Will added:
‘The psychoanalytical discourse had been mainlined and can be picked up in superstores at bargain-basement prices!‘ (As you can tell, there were also laughs to be had.)
And Will went on – in his purring, low drawl – echoed by Susie and Andrew: ‘What happened after Freud was that the ego became central to the narrative – and the work of the novelist it to present the ego artistically.’

At the beginning of the evening, Susie Orbach had offered up her premise:
‘Both literature and psychoanalysis,’ she said, ‘involve the investigation of the self; both have the endless capacity to be interested in others; both are describing or organising narratives and the psyche.’

The whole evening proved her points. We all reeled out of Queen Elizabeth Hall, psyches, egos and Ids shaken and stirred but profoundly satisfied.

Ox-Tales and the joy of being read to

Reading is mental exercise. It requires metaphorical muscles to lift the words from the page, and into the voice of the author that you hear inside your head. Apparently the more you use them, the more you read, the easier it becomes, and the more effortlessly you glean all that’s desirable in a novel.

My reading muscles are temperamental. Sometimes I’m surprised by my ability to glide over the sentences on the page, savoring all that is special about the words and the meaning, but yet effortlessly cruising through the story like a sports car cruises through country roads. Sometimes, it’s the exact opposite; the car coughs and splutters, jerks forwards, then backwards, doing violence to the story, perhaps even becoming oblivious to it.

My abilities to be read to, however, are immaculate. I’m sure of this after last night’s Ox-Tales event when four great authors read short stories to a packed QEH. It was so easy; all I had to do is listen, and off I went to the vivid places. I think hearing the words rather than reading them, freed my imagination just that little bit extra; farther was it then able to run away, with the images and feelings the stories were there to inspire.

Of course it helps that what we heard were amazing pieces of writing: short stories that were “half way to poetry”, which, in my opinion, is the perfect amount. And how else could they be more sweetly enjoyed, than by hearing them read by the writers themselves.

‘Ox Tales’ book launch – a taster

Dear All,
While we wait for your ‘OxTales’ blogs and audio to flow – perchance to flood! – in I have a small picture treat for you from my album….
We had four featured authors reading – nay, performing! -their sparkling short stories in Queen Elizabeth Hall: D.B.C. Pierre, Kamila Shamsie, Jeanette Winterson and Diran Adebayo. It was a night of lyrical, memorable cadences and rhythms and storytelling.
There was a blockbuster book singing…then afterwards the authors relaxed in our Lit Fest Green Room (see my previous Green Room posting – then you’ll know what we do there!)…some people relaxing more than others. Let’s put it this way, we have our first Green Room Kiss of the Festival (there may have been more – I missed them. I know my job is to be Rosie The Roving Reporter but I can’t rove EVERYWHERE).
(NB. Paul Blezard, the host of the ‘Ox Tales’ event is a friend of D.B.C Pierre’s – the rest I leave up to them to explain.)

A poem by Rick Stroud

Dear All,
In response to my ‘Plea For Poetry’ today I have received 3 beautiful specimens already. Keep them coming in!
Here is a poem written for us by Rick Stroud, the author of ‘The Book of the Moon’, film-maker and guest at London Literature Festival. Thanks so much Rick. Rosie Goldsmith

‘Promised land’ by Rick Stroud

Happy birthday Paddy mate
Eighty if you’d been a day
Eighty if you’d made it back.

According to Met Office records,
Nineteen forty was a very hot summer.

Dozing round Dispersal
‘Tonight must give the folks a ring
It’s the waiting makes you want to scream.’

Ting-a-ling the telephone.

‘Here we go. What a bind”
‘Third time today
Bloody Hun.’
‘Good luck old boy,
Back before they close’
‘Line them up, don’t forget’
‘OK, sure thing, will do.’
‘Quickly. Contact. Chocks away.’

All you’ve got is height.

‘Skipper! Bandits. Ten o’clock.’
‘Tally Ho’
‘I’m going in’
‘Dougie’s had it!’
‘Poor old Ginger’s flamerino.’

Fear in three dimensions.

You copped it Paddy
Shortly after tea.

‘Christ! What was that?
My foot won’t work.
Oh Mum I hate this flying game
One minute England now you’re dead.
Help me God
Don’t let me burn.
This is it chaps.
Cheerio.’

After which
You hit the sea.

The splashing, spinning, sparkling spray
Smashed up your plane.

Birthday boy you’re still nineteen
Frozen in your dazzling death.

Some things you’ve missed:

Vietnam
Johnny Rotten
Margaret Thatcher
Abu Ghraib.

Any good?

Were we worth it Paddy?
Have we done you proud?

Rick Stroud is over the moon

Rick Stroud is Over The Moon

Rick Stroud is Over The Moon

Posted on behalf of Rick Stroud by Rosie Goldsmith

It is now a week and a bit since my encounter with Buzz Aldrin and I have landed back on planet real life. I emerge from the airlock and the first thing I encounter is my Moon event at London Literature Festival, Escape Routes. The festival is drawing to a giddy close. So many good things have exploded into Southbank Centre in the last fortnight. I pause to celebrate the events I made it to and mourn the ones I missed. I think back to a frantic few days when we tried to get the National Theatre of Brent to premiere the National Film Theatre of Brent from a Volkswagen camper van on the concourse outside the Royal Festival Hall. It nearly worked but fell at the last fence because the NTOB’s commitments to the BBC clashed with the LLF dates. Pity because a centre-piece of their event would have been to run a comedy documentary we made together about the Apollo 11 moon landing. We planned to present Buzz himself with a boxed gala edition of the film. Shame, but there it is.

At my London Literature event I gave my talk, slides and film and descriptions of all the strange lunar things I have discovered since I set out to write my book, ‘The Book of the Moon’. The discovery, for instance, that ancient moon gods still have power as demonstrated by Salman Rushdie’s struggle with the moon god Hubal. Hubal is thought to be the precursor of the Islamic god Allah, (whose name means ‘The God’). Hubal was the most powerful of the 360 gods worshipped at Mecca in pre – Islamic times. Hubal had three daughters and the devil tricked the prophet Mohammad into writing in the Koran that they should be worshipped. And so the prophet was hoodwinked into writing a blasphemy. The verses he wrote are known as ‘the satanic verses’. Hubal and his daughters have given Rushdie grief ever since he used those verses as a device in his book of the same name. You can call it coincidence or superstition, but you can’t help wondering a bit about the unseen forces that are all around us.

Those unseen forces were at work as I packed up my computer at the end of the event. I thought about how my own life has been changed since I began to describe my lunar fixation. The research has bought me into contact with a whole new world of people and places unconnected to the film world that I have spent my life in. And yet in the queue outside, (beautiful people wanting to buy the book) there were three friends from that same film world who between them have been present at every stage in my film career. They had come separately to hear what I had to say about the moon. I couldn’t help but wonder if in some way the moon’s power hadn’t drawn them to Southbank Centre to turn the end of my event into a small personal celebration at landfall in a small private odyssey.

The evening wound up with another lunar coincidence. In the Green Room I ran into my friend Kamila Shamsie, a lovely woman and a lovely writer, (her book ‘Burnt Shadows’ is one of my top reads of the year and deserves to win a major prize). I had researched the giant observatory at Jantar Mantar in Jaipur while accompanying my wife and Kamila to the Jaipur Literary Festival. On a beautiful Indian evening we had stared at the huge sculptural shapes of the observatory, my book unwritten and me not knowing that the writing of it would lead me to several literary festivals and at almost all of them there would be the gracious figure of Kamila strutting her own brilliant stuff. From the Green Room I remembered that evening in Jaipur and thought what treats the moon has brought me. Through the window there was that self same moon, waning gibbous. I gave it a nod and murmured a quiet prayer of thanks.

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