Alison Brackenbury on John Clare

From 'November' by John Clare

David Morley : 28 Nov 2008 14:04 |  Tags: Poetry The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Strictly Come Laureate

Writing about web page http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7746608.stm

David Morley : 24 Nov 2008 19:48 |  Tags: Poetry The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

'Mauve world, green me': Tony Hancock's "The Poetry Society" full script

Episode Synopsis

A poetry evening with a group of Hancock's new avant-garde fiends produces gems of abstract poetry, not only from the group but from Bill and Sid.

Programme Guide

Scene: Hancock’s house: 23, Railway Cuttings, East Cheam.

Hancock:

(Enters room where Sid and Bill are sitting) Sid, Bill, I want a word with you two.

SID and BILL Laugh at Hancock

Hancock:

What are you laughing at?

Sid:

Gor blimey, what does he look like?

Hancock:

I fail to see any cause for undue hilarity.

Sid:

(still laughing) Gor, you wanna stand where I am. If you’re wearing those clothes for a bet, you’ve won. Gor blimey, what a twit you look.

Hancock:

I don’t know what you mean. If you’re referring to my slightly unconventional mode of dress, I’ll admit it must seem a little different to you bourgeoisie, but to we bohemians its quite normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill clobber.

Bill:

Well, you’re not going out in the street like that are you?

Hancock:

Well I see no reason why I shouldn’t; as it happens I’m not going to, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t.

Bill:

I’m not going out with you like that.

Hancock:

I can’t understand what all the fuss is about. Nothing out of the ordinary in this lot: blue and white striped stocking cap, home-woven vegetable-fibre shirt, canvas trousers and fisherman-rope sandals. Not exactly shipping-clerk gear, I admit, nevertheless indicative of my new state-of-mind. My friends and I are rebelling against conformity.

Sid:

What do they wear?

Hancock:

Well, the same as this, of course. We’re the ‘avant-guard’ of the New Culture. We’re dedicated to setting up a new order of things; determined to establish a new set of values; to break away from the bonds that threaten to stifle the cultural and creative activities of Man’s mind.

Sid:

Blimey, another load of layabouts.

Hancock:

We are not layabouts, we are artists, mush. Writers, poets, thinkers, all men who are seriously perturbed about the state of the world at the moment.

Sid:

And what are you lot going to do about it?

Hancock:

We are going to show the world the real truth, by setting them an example, developing our superior intellects. Culture, mate, that’s where the hope of the world lies. And a more cultural mob than us you wouldn’t find outside the Chelsea Embankment. Twenty-seven throbbing intellects, raring to go.

Bill:

Can I join?

Hancock:

No, you can’t. This isn’t a ping-pong and darts club. This is a group with lofty ideals; a ‘cultural and discussion group’, dedicated to the betterment of Mankind.

Sid:

Well why can’t he join, then? He’s Mankind.

Hancock:

Well, loosely, yes. Only up to a point, he’s not far enough advanced for us.

Sid:

You said it was for the "betterment of Mankind"?

Hancock:

Yes but, stone me, you’ve got to have something to start on. Look at 'im, you can’t expect us to go that far back; we’re only interested in modern-shaped people.

Sid:

All right...what exactly does this mob do?

Hancock:

Well, we meet every night down the coffee-bar and we chat.

Sid:

I haven’t seen you.

Hancock:

Not the one you go to. Oh no. - not El Castanetto. That’s bourgeois, that is; we go to the one done up like a graveyard. We sit on the old cardboard tombstones round the plastic coffins...and we indulge in philosophical analysis. We formulate our plans for our Brave New World; Gladys takes it down in her notebook and when she’s filled it up we’re going to publish it. We’re calling it "A Thesis on the Reconciliation of Homo-Sapiens in Relationship with his Natural Destiny and the Theory of Selective Evolution".

Sid:

Yeah, it sounds marvellous. They’ll probably make a film of it.

Bill:

Yeah, that’d be a good idea. A musical. I can just see it...

(sings to tune of - When You’ve Got Friends And Neighbours)

When you’ve got Ho-mo-sap-iens,
And se-lect-ive ev-o-lu-tion,
La de da-di...

Hancock:

Are you taking the mickey?

Sid:

Well, I ask you. What a load of old rubbish you talk sometimes.

Hancock:

I wouldn’t expect you to understand the outlook of an intellectual like me. I mean, let’s face it, you’ve never been one for new movements, have you? You’ve always been complacent, haven’t you? You’re not particularly bothered about the impending stagnation of western civilisation, are you?

Sid:

No, not really. As long as my horses don’t stagnate, I don’t care what happens.

Hancock:

Exactly. The struggle of the human race is nothing compared to your struggle up to the two-bob window at Cheltenham, is it?

Sid:

No, its not.

Hancock:

Exactly. Reactionary, you are...dead reactionary. You epitomise the very people the ‘East Cheam Cultural Progressive Society’ are fighting.

Sid:

Who?

Hancock:

The ‘East Cheam Cultural Progressive Society’, that’s us. The E.C.C.P.S. Or the Ecpers, as we are known locally.

Sid:

Well really, when you add it all up, it’s...a bit tatty, innit?

Hancock:

Tatty? We’re the hope-of-the-world, mate.

Sid:

What else do you do?

Hancock:

Well, during the day we pursue our various artistic sidelines, some of us make pots and jugs. Then there’s Adelaide, she’s very good on the raffia-mats. Then there’s Percy and his Welsh bedspreads. Some of us paint, and sculpt...and the rest of us lie in bed, thinking.

Sid:

You, of course, are one of the lyers-in-bed, thinking.

Hancock:

We must all do what is best suited to us. You see, Sidney, we are a collection of kindred spirits who are all revolting against the Establishment.

Bill:

How long have you been at it?

Hancock:

Three days. I was like you two: a useless vacuum, wandering in the wilderness of futility; no purpose in life. Then it happened. Last Thursday night, it was, I heard a group talking in the coffee-bar, it was like opening a new door. Everything seemed to suddenly fall into place. These are the people I’ve been looking for, I thought and I asked if I could join them. They weren’t keen at first; they weren’t sure if my intellect was of a sufficiently high standard...but I bought them a cup of coffee all round, and they let me join.

Sid:

All right, then, now let’s be honest; we know why you joined...you fancied the sandals didn’t you?

Hancock:

My dress is merely a symbol of my hatred of convention.

Bill:

Tub, can I borrow your razor?

Hancock:

You can keep it, I won’t be needing it any more, I’m growing a beard.

Sid:

Oh blimey. And, of course, you’re letting your hair grow long.

Hancock:

One inch below the shoulders, regulation length. Unless you’re a female then you can have whatever length you like. Most of them have crew-cuts.

Bill:

Hey. Please let me join, Tub. I’ll grow a beard and let me hair grow long. I’ll provide me own sandals and shirt and you won’t have to buy them for me. Well, I don’t expect to be allowed to join in the intellectual discussions...I’ll be the caretaker...I’ll be the man who looks after the shed for you while you’re making your pots.

Hancock:

No.

Bill:

I’ll comb your beards for you.

Hancock:

No. We don’t want you. We’d be conscious of you

Bill:

Well, I wouldn’t make any noise.

Hancock:

We’d know you were there; it’d put us right off our contemplating. How could we concentrate on re-shaping the world, with you sitting there scratching your head? I’m sorry, both of you would be completely out of place, which is why I want you out of here by seven o’clock.

Sid:

(indignantly) What for?

Hancock:

Well, it’s Thursday night.

Sid:

Well?

Hancock:

Thursday night, it’s our poetry reading classes.

Sid:

Oh no. You’re not having that bunch of scruff-bags round here.

Hancock:

May I remind you this is my house, I shall invite just who I like. And if you don’t approve, you can load your horse and cart, and leave.

Sid:

Why can’t they hold it round one of their houses?

Hancock:

Because I’m the only one in the group who’s got a house.

Sid:

Haven’t got houses. Where do they live?

Hancock:

Well, ten of them live in a basement under the pet shop, seven live on a boat on the canal, and the other fifteen of them live with them.

Sid:

Don’t they do any work?

Hancock:

Oh please, Sidney, work, work. Work is the biggest restrictor of men’s minds. They can’t allow themselves to be hampered by the menial soul-destroying labour of everyday jobs. Work, to them, represents the Establishment, and they’re against that.

Sid:

Well, what do they live on, then?

Hancock:

National Assistance.

Sid:

Oh, they’re not against that part of the Establishment, then?

Hancock:

Won’t you ever understand?

Bill:

Well, who’s providing the food and drink for the poetry reading classes?

Hancock:

Well, I am, of course.

Sid:

Oh...they’ve got no objection to you going out to work and owning a house and having money, then?

Hancock:

Well, the question has been raised; my having money is bit of an embarrassment to their aims, really, but they suggested I get rid of it.

Sid:

Well, they’re doing their best to help you.

(Knock at the door)

Sid:

Open the door. The outsiders are outside. Well I’m off, and I’m taking my bottle of brown ale out of the sideboard, I’m not letting any outsiders get outside of that.

Hancock:

No, don’t go, I’d like you to stay. I’d like you to listen to the poetry reading; it might convince you that these people have a great talent to offer the world.

Bill:

Yeah, let’s stay, Sid, it might be a giggle.

(Door opening)

Hancock:

Ah. Welcome, brethren. Come in, come in, welcome to my home.

Gregory:

(Gregory cannot pronounce his 'R's) Oh, Anthony, dear boy...so this is where you live.

Hancock:

Yes. Do you like it, Gregory?

Gregory:

Oh, yes. Yes, I think I do. I’m definitely getting...turquoise vibrations.

Sid:

What’s he talking about?

Bill:

I dunno.

Gregory:

The vibrations. The house is giving off definite vibrations.

Sid:

That’s the trains going by.

Gregory:

Who are these persons?

Hancock:

They’re friends of mine, Gregory - there’s Sidney James here, William Kerr - this is the leader of our group, Gregory.

Sid:

Gregory what?

Gregory:

Just Gregory, we never use surnames in our group, they’re very bourgeois, I suppose you’ll be leaving shortly.

Hancock:

Well, actually, no, I’ve asked them to stop for the poetry reading, they...they live here with me, you see.

Gregory:

Good heavens. Still I suppose its quite an interesting experiment, actually living with these people.

Sid:

(sotto) He’s getting up my nose, this bloke.

Gregory:

I suppose you sort of watch them and make notes.

Hancock:

Well, I...

Gregory:

You’re working on a thesis on the mental workings of the lower order of the species.

Sid:

(sotto) Oh dear. He’s going to get my fist right through that beard in a minute.

Hancock:

Sid. Sid, please, no punch-ups, not yet. He doesn’t mean anything, he’s the most advanced member of the group. I mean he thinks Bertrand Russell’s a bit of a Charlie, you can’t blame him for not reckoning you. Come and meet the other members - this is Greta.

Greta:

How do you do?

Sid:

My word, I’ve seen some birds in my time, look at that. All lank hair and wooden beads. How do you do, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.

Bill:

Hi ya, doll. How about you and me whizzing down to the pub? There’s a piano down there, its ‘talent-night’, tonight, in the saloon bar. Are you musical?

Greta:

I can only tolerate Bartok and Weber.

Bill:

Well, that’s all right, sing a couple of their songs, the lads won’t mind.

Greta:

What an intriguing little savage you are.

Hancock:

Bill. Come away, come away. I must apologise, Greta, he’s not one of us. He’s very suburban in his musical taste. He doesn’t appreciate the finer points of classical music like we Gilbert and Sullivan fans. By the way, dear, I know its against all group ethics to consider such things important, but I must say I like your turn-out tonight.

Greta:

Oh, thank you, do you really?

Hancock:

Oh yes, very individual; the elongated eyebrows touching the ear holes certainly gets me going. And the blue lipstick sets it off marvellously. I think, without a doubt, you’re the weirdest-looking one here tonight.

Greta:

Oh that’s very kind of you, I do my best.

Gregory:

Well? Shall we start? We’ve got many important new works to read.

Hancock:

By all means, I’ll get some chairs.

Gregory:

Oh, that won’t be necessary, I mean we don’t use chairs, chairs are a symbol of unproductive work, the furnishings of a decadent society.

Hancock:

Of course, I hadn’t realised. Bill, take the chairs out and burn them, horrible suburban bric-a-brac. Well then, er...what do we do, then, stand around?

Gregory:

My dear fellow, haven’t you read your handbook? I mean it definitely states that at cultural meetings of the group, such as poetry reading...‘the members shall adopt postures in keeping with the intellect of the individual, without sacrificing the mood of the work. We are, thus, irrevocably united as a group in relationship to the poem being read’.

Hancock:

I see. Well, you start and I’ll...I’ll sort of stand loosely about so that I can, er, sort of slide into something as soon as it comes over me, you know.

Gregory:

Yes, well we’ll commence with a work by myself...I have entitled it: ‘Tin Can’.

Hancock:

Tin Can? (sotto) Tin Can; yes, let’s see, I think I’ll lean up against the fireplace with one arm up, suggesting the lid’s being opened.

Sid:

Oh, blimey look at ’em.

Gregory:

Quiet please. Quiet please, everyone. I can’t get in the mood with talking going on, can I? Right.

‘Tin Can’, by Gregory.

Splish, splash, splonk,
Wooden shoes, red socks,
Coffins, tombstones and tranquillisers...

Hancock:

Very good. Very significant...

Gregory:

(indignant)...I hadn’t finished, had I?

Hancock:

Oh I’m very sorry.

Gregory:

...Aspirins and driving tests,
Jet-planes and skeletons,
Frog, singing to egg-timer,
Calendars and candles, upside-down,
Plastic apples on coconut-trees,
Splish, splash, splonk.

Hancock:

Is that it?

Gregory:

(emotionally exhausted) Yes, that is it.

Hancock:

Marvellous. I wish I could write like that. Are you all right, by Jove...you look washed-out.

Gregory:

Well it’s...it’s just the emotional strain of reading it, you see, the vibrations sap my energy.

Hancock:

Yes I know how it is, its a pity we burnt the chairs we could have had a nice sit-down.

Gregory:

Did you like the poem?

Hancock:

Like it? It was sensational. What an emotional experience. I haven’t heard anything like that since "The Road to Mandalay". Who’s next?

Gregory:

Rupert.

Sid:

Oh we haven’t got another one. Bill, let’s get the booze out.

Hancock:

Do you mind. If you can’t appreciate the delicacy of the works, you might at least have the courtesy to keep your cake-hole closed. Bill, what are you doing?

Bill:

I’ve adopted a pose in readiness for the next one.

Hancock:

Very funny, now come out of the sideboard before I clout you one. Right now carry on, Rupert.

Rupert:

My piece is rather more spiritual. Its an outcry from the soul of my grandfather. This poem, I’m sending to U.N.E.S.C.O. for translation into eighty-four different languages...er, but for the purposes of this reading I shall render it in the original English.

Sid:

If it’s anything like the other one, it won’t really matter.

Gregory:

Do we have to have this troglodyte here?

Sid:

What does he mean?

Bill:

Hit ’im, Sid.

Hancock:

No don’t, please. This is my first ‘at home’ evening, don’t spoil it, please.

Bill:

Punch ’is nose in.

Hancock:

I’ll punch yours in, if you don’t keep quiet. This is a cultural evening, we’re having no bounce-ups in here.

Greta:

Oh, for goodness sake, be quiet...all this quarrelling is interfering with my perceptive aura.

Hancock:

You see...you’ve upset Greta now, her perceptive aura’s gone-for-a-Burton. Can be very nasty, too, that can. Now keep quiet and listen to Rupert.

Rupert:

I’ve called this poem: ‘Blank Detail’.

Hancock:

Ah, yes. Blank Detail. Yes, let’s see now...I feel a sort of purple mood coming over me I...I think for this I shall sit cross-legged on the floor, yogi-style, with one foot tucked behind me neck...hang on a minute, hang on, right...hang on a sec...right, right. I’m in...proceed.

Rupert:

‘Blank Detail’, by Rupert.

Straw in the wind,
Straw in the wind,
Straw in the wind,
Straw in the wind,
Straw in the wind,
Fly. Fly. Fly.

Hancock:

Marvellous.

Bill:

Can I read my poem now?

Hancock:

Pardon?

Bill:

I’ve just written a poem. Can I read it?

Hancock:

I somehow don’t think the sort of poems you write will be suitable for this gathering. We are not interested in young ladies from various parts of the country.

Bill:

Oh, no, no...I’ve written an abstract poem.

Hancock:

Oh, don’t be ridiculous. One has to be sympathetic with the symbolism of existence to turn out that sort of stuff. Get back in the sideboard.

Greta:

Oh, no, let’s hear what the little savage has written. It might provide some light relief after the intensity of the last two offerings.

Hancock:

Oh, very well...make it quick and keep it clean.

Bill:

Mm hmm. Thank you. Eh hem.

‘Incandescence’, by William.

Hick, hack, hock,
Rinky tinky on purple grass,
Shafts of light, hob-nail boots,
Tramping down the bamboo,
That grows upwards, downwards, sideways,
Into the Concrete Cosmos,
Life is mauve,
I am orange,
Hick, hack, hock.

Hancock:

What a load of rubbish. You buffoon. ‘Rinky tinky on purple grass’...what does that mean? You’re orange and life is mauve. I have never heard such unadulterated cods-wallop in my life. Get back in the sideboard, this minute.

Gregory:

How dare you speak to a genius like that? I’ll never be able to write such masterpieces as that.

Hancock:

But he’s a dolt, he can’t do anything.

Gregory:

Can’t do anything?. In a few brilliantly-conceived lines he’s summed up the human capacity for suffering, and its struggle for survival.

Hancock:

Oh, come now, Gregory; surely it was empty, devoid of any symbolism. You made a mistake, he fooled you for a moment. Analyse it. Bamboo. Hob-nail boots. Well, it doesn’t mean anything to me, mate; my aura of perception didn’t even wobble. Greta, what do you think?

Greta:

Well, it was like a revelation. It transported me to another plane. For the first time I saw the fifth-dimension. Like a golden flash, cleaving the skies; I was transported to the heights...of delirium.

Hancock:

See what you’ve done now, she’s off. Why don’t you keep quiet when there’s ladies present?

Gregory:

(in awe) "Life is mauve. I am orange." It says everything. I suggest we call it ‘The Last Poem’, there’s nothing left to write about now. How do you do it?

Bill:

Oh, well I...I didn’t think it was that good...it...wasn’t one of me best.

Gregory:

Oh. Oh, this man. What an intellect. He’s passed through the gates of perception and he says it wasn’t one of his best. Would you do us the honour of taking over the leadership of our group?

Bill:

Oh, well I....

Hancock:

Oh, this is madness. Look, look, I’ve written a poem...

Gregory:

I am talking to the Master.

Hancock:

Don’t make any hasty decisions, listen to mine. Listen,

‘The Ashtray’, by Anthony.

Steel rods of reason through my head.
Salmon jumping, where jump I?
Camels on fire, and spotted clouds.
Striped horses prance the meadow wild,
And rush on to drink at life’s fountains deep.
Life is Cream. I am puce.
Ching. Chang. Cholla.

Gregory:

How dare you revile the group with such shallow, trivial nonsense.

Hancock:

It was as good as his, what’s the matter with you? Its too deep for you, that’s the trouble.

Gregory:

Well, what does it mean?

Hancock:

What does it mean.? Well, I should have thought that was obvious. It’s a plea for the...well, no it’s more of an outcry against the...er,...it’s an outcry against the licensing laws. Well, now, now, now, let’s er...let’s split it up a bit. Now then, you take, for a start, the camels on fire under the spotted clouds. Now there’s a provocative line if ever I’ve heard one. In that I’ve summed up the whole situation in the Gobi desert. And "life’s fountains deep", well its a plea for more water-holes. That’s why the camels are on fire, they’re gasping, they haven’t had a drop to drink since they left Kabul. Its a very long trip, Kabul.

Gregory:

And "Ching, chang, cholla"?

Hancock:

Well, they’re the drivers, you won’t get any change out of them. No, they couldn’t care less. As long as they’ve got their striped horses they’re quite happy. Well? Well, ask him to explain his then, go on. See what rubbish he comes out with.

Greta:

There’s no need to ask him, the words speak for themselves, in every throbbing line. William is telling us that life is a fraud. That we are merely insects existing on the tail of a turtle.

Hancock:

Did you tell them that?

Bill:

Well, you heard the poem, I thought it would have been obvious.

Hancock:

Don’t listen to him, he’s having you on. You can’t make a nit-wit like him leader of the group. Sid, of course, Sid, my only ally; now the truth ’ll come out. Go on, Sid, expose him. Tell them what a poltroon he is.

Sid:

Who?

Hancock:

Well him...this...the Witless Wonder, here. Hurry up, tell them before they have the laurel-wreath on his head.

Sid:

What him, William? The greatest intellect ever to come out of Australia? A legend, this boy, at thirteen. The ‘Wandering Einstein of Queensland’, they called him.

Hancock:

What are you hoping to get out of this?

Gregory:

Yes, well of course, this only confirms what his work has already told us. I mean he is obviously a man of extreme literacy and learning. A worthy successor to me. All those in favour say aye.

ALL:

Aye.

Gregory:

I, Gregory, hereby relinquish leadership of our group, and invest you, William, with all the powers, titles and privileges that go with it.

Hancock:

Titles and privileges. So that’s what you’re up to Mr. James you’ve been sitting there reading the rule-book. Show me that. ‘The leader of the group receives from levies from other members a remuneration of no less than five-hundred pounds per year, so that he may be exempted from the need to work, and may spend all his time on contemplation and intellectual pursuits.’ Five-hundred a year, is this right, Gregory?

Gregory:

Oh, yes. And his lieutenant gets three-hundred and fifty.

Hancock:

Who’s his lieutenant?

Sid:

It says here...‘the leader has the privilege of choosing his own lieutenant’.

Hancock:

At three-fifty a year?

Sid:

Yes.

Hancock:

And that’s what you’re after. Well you’ve had that, because it also says here that...’the leader can only choose for his lieutenant, a man who has proved his intellectual qualifications by having produced an original, cultural piece of work’.

Sid:

Exactly. I shall now read an abstract poem, which I just happen to have written. ‘Limbo.’ by Sidney.

Hancock:

Oh this is getting farcical. I should have this job.

Gregory:

Quiet please, everyone. Sidney’s going to read to us.

Sid:

‘Limbo.’ by Sidney.

Mauve world, green me,
Black him, purple her,
Yellow us, pink you...

Greta:

Beautiful. Beautiful.

Sid:

Lead pipes, fortune made,
Six-to-four, come in second,
Green country, blue Haringey,
And White City.
Hick. Hike. Hock.

Gregory:

I can’t take any more. All this sensuous excitement in one evening. What an experience to hear such beauty, such translucent symbolism. How you must know life, Sidney.

Sid:

Oo. I do, boy.

Greta:

How you must have suffered to produce work like that.

Sid:

Suffered? It’s been murder, sometimes.

Gregory:

I say. We must have Sidney as our leader’s lieutenant.

Hancock:

You don’t know what you’re saying, he’s a fake, he’s only after the loot. Why, before you came in, he was saying what a load of idiots you are.

Gregory:

We are idiots compared with him.

Greta:

Sidney. Sidney. I feel the vibrations between us growing stronger and stronger. Some red, some yellow...

Sid:

All right luscious, we’ll sort ‘em out later, eh?

Gregory:

Sidney? Sidney, will you do us the honour of becoming our second-in-command?

Sid:

Certainly, boy; be a pleasure.

Hancock:

Wait, he’s taking you on, its the cider you’ve been drinking, its inflamed your senses. Look, I’ve written another poem, its better than his.

Jake was a coward,
A great big fella with a turned-up nose.

Gregory:

Will you get out.

Hancock:

It’s a funny old world we live in,
But the world’s not entirely to blame,
Its the rich what gets the pleasure,
And the poor what gets the blame.

Sid:

Wait a minute, sling him out, he’s a troglodyte.

Gregory:

Yes, throw him out, everyone.

Hancock:

It’s my house, you can’t throw me out. It’s my house...here you are then, here’s one...

‘The Highwayman.’

He wore a French cocked-hat at his forehead,
And a bunch of lace at his chin,
And the Highwayman came riding,
With his whiskers soaked in gin.

No? All right, here you are, then...

Sid:

Sling him out of here.

Hancock:

(being ejected forcibly) No, no. Put me down, I’ll have the law on you. Layabouts. Get back to work. Useless members of society. Parasites.

There’s a green-eyed yellow idol,
To the south of Kathmandu,
A little wooden cross above the town...

(door bangs shut)

Hancock:

(Knocking on door) Let me in. Let me in. I’m still a member.

There’s a little old log cabin,
Across the great divide,
Where lived a grizzled old prospector,
By the name of Andy Clyde.

What about our aims for improving the world?

It was pouring with snow on the equator,
And the icebergs were melting fast...

(to himself) I can’t be bothered with them. I’ll go down to the coffee-house. There’s bound to be another movement started up since yesterday. I’ll start one of me own. How did that poem of Sid’s go, now? "Mauve world, green me. Black him, purple her." That’s it, that’ll get ‘em. A breakaway group. We’ll be anti-everything. The new intellectual movement to shake the world......Or shall I go to the pictures? Yes, I might as well, I think that’s more my amour, really. Cab.

David Morley : 20 Nov 2008 17:51 |  Tags: Poetry The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

First Word: Erica Wagner on The Warwick Prize for Writing

Writing about web page http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article5153717.ece

I can only agree with what Erica Wagner has written for The Times on 14th November:

IF YOU'VE EVER been the judge of a literary prize - and I have judged a few - people will often ask you what it's like. Usually they are worried about how you coped with the sheer amount of reading involved. I'm always a little surprised by any claim that this is a herculean task, when there are plenty of jobs out there more onerous than book-reading.

That said, I am not certain that I envy the judges of the new Warwick Prize for Writing; its longlist was announced this week. I'm excited about this prize, which bills itself as “an international cross-disciplinary biennial award open to substantial pieces of writing in the English language, in any genre or form”. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, eh? Throw into the mix that the theme for the 2009 prize is “complexity”, and frankly I'm not sure how the judges - chaired by China Miéville, self-described writer of weird fiction - began to work out what they might consider.

The prize is worth £50,000 - not to be sneezed at. So what kind of book fits into the broad-minded category described? Joseph O'Neill's much-praised novel Netherland, for one, which missed out on the Man Booker Prize; but also The Rest is Noise, a book of music criticism by The New Yorker's terrific Alex Ross. So far, so fair enough, one might say. But here too on this whiplashing longlist is Torques: Drafts 58-76 by the American poet-critic Rachel Blau DuPlessis, which is part of a poetic project the author has been working on since the mid-1980s, and is brought to British audiences courtesy of the ever-adventurous Salt Publishing. You can head to the website for the rest of the titles, which include a first novel, a book of science fiction, and an investigation into the political misuse of mathematical statistics.

I can only celebrate the diversity of this prize, while at the same time trembling at the thought of the meetings that will whittle this list down to a shortlist (to be announced at the end of January 2009) and, finally, a winner in February. It will be fascinating to learn how the judges will measure one book against another, and how they will express their definitions of quality and complexity.

It's too easy, as a reader, to fall into the trap of thinking that you always know the sort of book you like to read. The Warwick Prize might help to break us all out of that box.

www.warwick.ac.uk/go/prizeforwriting

Erica Wagner was born in New York City in 1967. She grew up on the Upper West Side and went to the Brearley School. Her first job was helping her mother to answer all the fan mail for The Muppets; she can slit open one envelope and slip a picture of Miss Piggy into another like nobody’s business. She moved to Britain in the 1980s to continue her education: first at St Paul’s Girls’ School, then at Cambridge, and finally at the University of East Anglia, where she was taught by the late Malcolm Bradbury and by Rose Tremain.

She now lives in London, where she works as Literary Editor of The Times. In 1997 she published a book of short stories, Gravity (Granta), and three years later, following the publication of Ted Hughes’s Birthday Letters, a biographical gloss on that book, Ariel’s Gift: Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of Birthday Letters (Faber & Faber; W. W. Norton). Her stories have been widely anthologized and been broadcast on the radio; her poems have appeared in The TLS and PNReview.

She now edits the Books section that appears every Saturday in The Times, and writes a weekly column in that section, as well as reviews and articles. She’s interviewed such writers as Seamus Heaney, Donna Tartt, Maurice Sendak, Philip Pullman, Gitta Sereny, Paul Auster, Alan Garner, Peter Ackroyd, Bill Bryson and Nick Hornby. She reviews regularly for The New York Times, and also appears frequently on the radio and on television. She has been a guest on such programmes as (in Britain) Today, Front Row, The Culture Show, and (in the USA) Charlie Rose and Larry King Live.

She has judged many literary prizes; the Man Booker in 2002 (when the winner was Yann Martel’s Life of Pi), the Orange Prize, the Whitbread First Novel Award, and the Forward Prize. She sits on the Executive Committee of PEN and on the Advisory Committee of the Man Booker Prize for Fiction. Erica is a fencer (epée), loves to cook, knit, sing and ride on her scooter (the push kind, not the motor kind). She loves to listen to stories as well as read them, and seeks out fine storytellers from all over the world. She is deeply attached to the Brooklyn Bridge, and often travels back to New York to cross the East River on its span.

David Morley : 16 Nov 2008 19:23 |  Tags: Poetry The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

The £50, 000 Warwick Prize for Writing Announces ‘Complex’ Longlist

The Warwick Prize for Writing today announces a longlist which is set to redefine traditional forms of writing. For the first time, political scientists will compete against novelists, mathematicians against poets and economists against historians.

David Morley : 13 Nov 2008 13:31 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

'Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking'

Writing about web page http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/us_elections_2008/7711321.stm

David Morley : 05 Nov 2008 15:31 |  Tags: Poetry The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Apologies to my Friends in the North

Writing about web page http://www.litfest.org/

Well, the reading at Lancaster was eventful, preceded as it was by a massive asthma attack and then a huge bout of ketoacidosis after. What an evening. Apologies to my friends in the North who missed me, especially Andy and Penny. I did my best.

David Morley : 03 Nov 2008 04:08 |  Tags: The Practice Of Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem