Singing as the Darkness Lifts, Episode 38
Diving Right In
PodBean Link for those who like to listen
This morning the air brings me the scent of fermented green, and it feels like the day is readying itself to be warm.
Last night I dreamt of poets and words after being in the zoom room for the online launch of Damien Donnelly’s Back From Away. I love the feeling of a celebratory zoom and it was wonderful to be able to read during the event. I love Damien’s work and the way he delivers his words. When I got the new book I read it from cover to cover the same day – my favourite thing to do when a new book arrives. I like to see which poems resonate on the first read through and then return to the whole book again and see what else becomes a favourite. Two poems echoed with their observation and their numbers after my first reading of the book, ‘Between the Floorboards’ and ‘The Sum Of’. I loved the way they zoomed in on detail and told so much.
I was also able to do that kind of diving right in for Caroline Bird’s new collection, Ambush at Still Lake, this week. A little celebratory poet dance at the fact it had arrived here more quickly than I had anticipated and then a pint of fizzy water and straight in. Well, I actually finished the gardening I had started first, but it was lovely to know that when I was headed inside for a sit down there was a new book of poetry to enjoy. And it’s another absolute cracker of a collection from Caroline, and the cover is a delight. Highly recommended indeed.
Alt Text says it’s, ‘A stuffed animal in the air,’ I say it is Ronnie free diving and it reminds me of the wonderful feeling of losing myself in a new book of poetry.’
I wrote my first yarn festival poem this week for Buxton Wool Gathering. It was slightly harder than I thought it would be, but I have been determined to capture some of what I sense since being able to immerse myself in such things. I liked the fact that, inspired by the stalls in the grounds of the venue, knickerbocker glories and candyfloss came to mind. I promised someone I was talking to there that I would actually put pen to paper this time instead of simply thinking about it each time I help Kath and then not getting round to it. I look forward to seeing what comes out of other events.
I’ll leave you today with the yarn poem and a poem I tidied up this week as a result of seeing Alan Parry’s call out for poems about the Ocean on Friday. Fishing for Tope, 1932 was inspired by a photograph of the annual tope festival in Herne Bay and was originally written for Top Tweet Tuesday. I love the fact that to me it is now a companion poem for Trawling on a Day’s Leave and Whitby’s Old Lifeboat. I can read those poems to you on my YouTube channel and I might pop over there myself later on to remind myself when it was that I recorded them! One more thing before I go... I find myself continuing to admire Mrs Plante who won the competition that year with a fish weighing 94lb 1oz.
Fishing for Tope, 1932
Twenty-four fish displayed
hanging from the railings.
White bellied ghosts
their shark mouths closed.
Next to the catch
my great grandfather
capped and relaxed.
They say he was often out at sea
or fishing for women.
That he liked his drink.
But right there he is an angler
smiling for the camera.
I
Set up.
The air holds the clang of metal.
I wonder if organ pipes would sound
their notes when dropped.
Here there is one sharp note.
It rides on the necessary chatter
of what, where.
Sometimes it clatters and rolls
and I have to turn my ears to dull
the sound.
Colours out in rows and boxes,
on hooks and rails.
Settled in,
ready to be seen and touched.
Our salt and perfume
and mixed fibres
are left settling too
as we leave the hall.
II
Show Time.
Greetings fly mid-air;
gentler now, with anticipation
as visitor voices gather in queues.
We welcome the dreamy imagining
of wool gathering.
And there are tales shared and laughter.
And tips and techniques and admiration.
And we are changed by the stories.
III
Close.
Conversation comes in knickerbocker glory
layers now.
Candy floss clouds of talk
disperse as the close draws near
and we ready ourselves to pack,
and stack, and leave.
Some things will be swept up
after we are all gone
others we will carry out with us.
Some we will hold onto for years.
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