Here some of the seminal books that influenced me over the years..
This quickly got out of hand and a more rational attempt will be made later….Margaret Atwood’s Survival and Jonathan Bate’s book missing..
Here some of the seminal books that influenced me over the years..
This quickly got out of hand and a more rational attempt will be made later….Margaret Atwood’s Survival and Jonathan Bate’s book missing..
Like a bad penny this story never dies and after I had this photograph taken yesterday I thought similar and did some more digging and found two new articles on ‘Flynn’ and for those less squeamish that comes from the saying ‘in like Flynn’ about Errol Flynn’s legendary bedding of women.
the full story in Coppard link above but here two new takes on the story..
https://www.newyorker.com/books/second-read/the-marvellous-forgotten-stories-of-a-e-coppard
I came from nothing, and it may be I was never anything more than a contrivance for recording emotions I would fain have taken for my own, but could not– life passed me by
.
From AE Coppard’s semi-autobiographical My Hundredth Tale written c1930
Graham Thomas an English author living in Tokyo has written a very accurate short life of Flynn available here.
Recommended.
I have spent the afternoon reading the beginning of Yvor Winters ‘The Function of Criticism’ which I acquired about 30 years ago.
I also read a couple of interesting articles online.
The first by the poet David Yezzi is interesting and makes a case for his continuing relevance. The second is a wider career over-view from the now defunct Contemporary Poetry Review.
I also mused upon the slow demise of the ‘Poet-Critic’ a sad reflection of the sorry state of contemporary poetry where popularity and social media profiles count for more than intellectual rigor. Even with Larkin, Heaney and Hughes there were solid publications of other writing. Can one imagine a serious book of Simon Armitage or Helen Mort criticism ..no because it too dangerous an occupation in the ‘blow-back’ noughties where any -expression of opinion is frowned upon. Books are reviewed but mostly to further mediocre careerist blogs but serious criticism that gone the way of decent classical music radio i.e. popularised out of existence.
So reading the opinionated Winters is refreshing. He was wrong as much as right but at least he expressed an opinion.
https://newcriterion.com/issues/1997/6/the-seriousness-of-yvor-winters
https://www.cprw.com/the-absolutist-the-poetry-and-criticism-of-yvor-winters
Talking of opinionated tody I also picked up this Further Requirements book by Larkin to add to Required Writing which again I had for over thirty years. I wonder how long before Larkin is ‘Decolonized’ from the local university stacks which considering his lifetime devotion to maintaining library collections is beyond sad.
Back in October 2014 (now six years ago) I was on the first term of a Creative Writing M.A. at NTU.
I was also with uncanny timing commissioned (the first and so far the only time I been commissioned) by R.I.B.A. through Apple and Snakes to write in response to a lovely collection of Edwin Smith Photographs at R.I.B.A. that autumn.
I missed my course deadline but fulfilled the commission and promptly left a course that frankly I should not have been on at that time. The £500 fee almost covered my first term fees!
The RIBA website has mislaid the entire project basically so I publishing whole thing here instead.
Here is the work which is one of the best things I done so far and as I not as flavour of the month as certain other poets hasn’t been seen since unless you delve deep into my obscure back catalogue.
Apple and Snakes put up a blog post of the recordings we all made as well but they been deleted since as diversification took its toll..
also deleted from RIBA too….ticked the wrong box?
So here they are again..
In fact I have been ignoring poetry, shelving it, filing it and generally pushing it to the back of my mind for the past decade.To start with this was deliberate as the combination of employment in an art school (note word art there not a writing school) and the first consistent art studio close to home promised great things…
But the best laid plans..mice and men etc.
The art school post ended in 2015 and although I still rent a studio I have been fairly incosistent in using it and the great rebirth of my painting career and the fame and wealth that would surely follow never happened.
A fairly shambolic attempt to reinvigorate my writing in 2014 on a M.A. in Creative Writing ended in abject failure as the reality of my age and what a modern creative writing course consists of collided head on….
Above and beyond all of these forlorn attempts to concentrate on anything was the gradual deterioration of my wife’s condition from 2009 onwards. Nothing, not an M.A. in Fine Art or international conferences had half the effect of living with someone who gradually showed more and more signs of a serious mental illness and addiction.
I have pretty much lost the last decade to being part of her battle with family tragedy and illness and thankfully despite the recent divorce she is still alive so far. I take nothing for granted now and take each day as it comes.
In that kind of time-frame poetry was the last thing on my mind and with the exception of some hastily produced mini-pamphlets my poetic career has remained parked in the drive until now.
So here I am 60 years old..none the wiser and a lot poorer with no gainful employment looking at writing again as the most ridiculous and least renumerative path I could possibly choose.
Welcome to the New World…same as it ever was..same as it ever was…
I wrote this statement in 2010. Nothing has changed.
I am using this ‘credo’ as the basis of my new ‘great leap forward’ with the Thames art and technology idea..
Delineation of ‘Theory’: An artist’s personal statement
Throughout my ‘art-working’ life some things have remained stubbornly, one might even say obsessively’, constant. Be it in digital images as recently or in drawing or poetry and song I have remained constant in delineating a clearly ‘map-able’ terrain. This terrain extends about 5 to 20 miles in radius of my hometown of Didcot in Oxfordshire, England. Always the poor relation of the illustrious centre of learning that resides but a stones throw away.
There runs a hard core of intention throughout which draws on politics, ecological thinking and that obsessive returning to notions of ‘place’ and ‘landscape’. I regard my work as being a mapping of constant themes which recur sometimes years later. The River Thames is one theme and the Berkshire Downs another.
Local folk tales and oral literature mined from local libraries another. A recent song ‘Hanging Puppet’ drew on one such ‘tale. In fact one could describe it as artistic ‘Anglocana’ to differentiate it from Americana. I have written well over 2000 songs over the years. Mostly these are recorded in lo-fi versions and only really coming to life when in the hands of other more talented musicians (see the Moon Over the Downs CD 2003).
Poetry has appeared in various magazines and in the Scottish anthology The Ice Horses (1996). I currently have at least 4 unpublished complete books of poetry on the shelf. One could describe my work as multi-disciplinary with a strong streak of green politics colouring the waters beneath.
I have drawn on some clear influences in writing and art. Seamus Heaney’s concept of a personal ‘Hedge School’ going back to John Clare is one thread. My forebear’s personal involvement in Agricultural Unions is another (see Skeleton at the Plough poems). I also am influenced by a ‘working class’ sense of writing picked up form Carver and Gallagher and other dirty realists. In song almost any Americana act would suffice.
I am not American but I have strong American influences going back to Thoreau and Walden lake. To try and build an alternative ‘English’ approach I have increasingly been drawn back to the English Civil War when the notions of science and arts were more fluid and interchangeable. As an example I would cite Robert Plot’s Oxford a marvelous Natural History of Oxfordshire from 1677.
In it one finds specimens such as ‘Stones that look like Horses’. I draw heavily upon cultural geography theory post Williams and Berger and am heavily influenced by Patrick Keiller and David Matless.
It is this kind of merging of scientific natural history and folk-lore terminology that I now most interested in both in poetry and artwork.
Back in 2010 I started off with the title Track for a multimedia M.A. that finally did not happen. However the seeds of some kind of project centred around the impact of the railway on the movement of people and ideas started then. This is now bearing fruit as a double project centred on my local history research in two cities close to my heart.
So now we have…
based around the recent Lost Nottingham poetry project and
Based around the concept of Backwaters and Branch Lines
Maybe two separate collections or two bound together in one ‘TRACK’ volume.
Here was the original version from 2010
https://shaunbelcher.com/rpt/?page_id=7
PAPER BOATS ONÂ PRIVATEÂ ROAD
A lone slim figure in Sunday best gets off the tram on Woodborough Road,
Hesitates then proceeds down Private Road until it dog-legs east at his destination
As he turns along the high brick wall he hears children’s laughter, a maid calling
He stands at the gate hidden by trees and calls, the maid comes to the gate
Later she recalls his patent leather shoes and his smart appearance that day
Frieda stands at the French Windows, behind the red curtains, eyes sparkling like a hawk
He is ushered into the sitting room, red velvet curtains caught in the breeze billowing
Initial stiffness is washed away in a heated conversation about Oedipus and women
D.H. Lawrence is being bewitched by this most ‘un-English’ and strong-willed of women,
Her exotic and erotic vibrancy entrances him, already struggling to escape this England
Her husband delayed by work she leads him past then in to her bedroom,
An English sparrow in the talons of a German hawk he is taken in hand, finds himself
Then they are both entwined in secrecy, taking tram and train to secret assignations
One day with her daughters they play on a local stream with paper boats
He flicks matches at them saying look it is the Spanish Armada come to sink England
Two paper boats catching fire in a Nottinghamshire backwater, then phoenix-like rising
From the crazed machinery of Edwardian England, the conservatism of suburbia
Sometimes of an evening Frieda would dash up Mapperley Plains just seeking freedom
In a cottage near Moor Green they continued their first loving act on Private Road
Under Pear-blossom, ‘a fountain of foam’, Frieda crawls naked over him, he writes a poem
To her and to freedom, to his sexual and intellectual fulfilment with a gushing woman
By May 3rd they were sat together on a night-boat to Ostend, that old England fading
A peaceful Anglo-German union as the two empires ramped up production of munitions and cruisers
The Suffragette movement beginning… the war to end all wars looming.
Paper boats burning…
PICASSO’S PEACE TRAIN
The black clouds had been building up all week
Thunder rolling down from the Peaks on Nottingham,
Grey drizzle trickling from the glass roof at Marylebone Station
Dripped on to Pablo Picasso’s neck as he boarded the train to Sheffield
Monday 13th November 1950 early morning the train’s steam billowed
Through the suburbs of London as it swung left at Lords, headed north.
Adjusting his pale blue tie and the beret on his lap
Pablo gently rolled his cigarette in his hand over and over
He turned to Gilbert his ex-resistance bodyguard, drew fire
His dark eyes flashing with mirth as they discussed the papers
The lies and distortion and the statement by Clement Atlee
Who stood by Guernica in 1939*, clenched his fist for the I.B.**
The heavens were opening all across the Midlands
The boiler hissing, the firebox at 2500 degrees C, half a Hiroshima
They hurtled down a line 50 years on from the dawn of the century
Carrying a card-carrying Communist spy according to the Herald
To a Peace Conference in Sheffield that would ‘paint the town red’
As the first U.S. troops brought their atomic bombs to defend us.
From arts council genius to pariah, Pathe News mocked his arrival
The only artist let in as Robeson and Neruda were denied visas
The Korean War on the back burner, the cold war freezing
Like bad weather the post-war storms kept blowing in
Pablo’s second and final visit to England and the first beyond London
In Sheffield the chrysanthemums and the banners were wilting.
Rugby, Leicester, Loughborough flashed by between grey sodden fields.
Then the train swung right into a Nottingham damp with rain and coal dust.
Crossing at Wilford Picasso caught sight of the Power Station
Huge dark rain lashed walls by the Trent, chimneys belching sulphur
The thunderclouds swirling beyond the steam out the carriage windows
On Wilford Bridge he turned and said ’Rain, Steam, Speed n’est-ce pas’?
Down a modernist line that lasted barely a century they drew into Victoria Station
Sliding through the tunnel at Weekday Cross and into the platforms
He stared at the tunnel ahead, like the gates of hell or a Minotaur’s lair
His impression of Nottingham some posters, a W H Smith, huddled travellers
Then darkness and rails rumbling beneath Mansfield road, light then dark at Carrington
He drew breath, then continued northwards mouthing the words of his speech later…
‘I stand for life against death, I stand for peace against war’
His hand constantly drawing the symbol of the dove against his trouser leg
Remembering the heat and light, the warmth of his father’s hand in his mind
The doves he grew up with jinking and turning against a blue sky.
At the exact spot where a year later the first Rolls Royce Avon prototype Canberra bomber***
crashed on Bulwell Common station….
References
*Â Â Clement Atlee spoke at the Whitechapel Gallery in front of Guernica on tour January 1939.
** International Brigade Spanish Civil War.
*** Atlee’s Labour Government decisions 1944 and 1947.
Our first tactical nuclear strike aircraft….designed to deliver a ‘British Nuclear deterrent’
CHARLIE AND THE LACE FACTORY
Monday 4th May 1904, Grand Theatre Radford Road, Hyson Green
Evening performance of Sherlock Holmes over, Charles Chaplin aged 15
Collar askew from a swift costume change leaves Billie the page boy behind
And cheekily slaps the final drop curtain just below King Charles head
The sun-light overhead sputters and dies leaving the stalls gloomy
As he exits through the corridor of mirrors, flickering like a film
He turns left on to Gregory Boulevard which is quiet now, audience departed
The half-moon illuminates the Forest park to his right, a few stars above the trees
Cold now he huddles in his thin jacket, stuffs hands in pockets and half-runs
Ahead the last tram descending the Mansfield road clatters in the darkness
A cab rattles past him headed toward Hyson Green its two jovial occupants singing
Then silence, just his own steps and far off an occasional cry, or clack of hooves
Latecomers emerging from the Grovesnor Hotel or workers leaving late shift
At the Mansfield Road a sudden burst of steam and noise as a train exits the tunnel
Then silence again as just Charlie and his shadow dance their way up Sherwood rise
Carrington Market is busy with late drinkers fresh off their factory shifts
The rumble of machinery echoes across the granite sets, mixes with brewery smells
A quick tap at the door and Mrs Hodgkinson lets him into his digs at number 100
From the back high window he looks down on the Burton and Sewell factories below
Their dark brick walls dotted with illuminated floors of workers making lace
Women on one floor tending the bobbins and un-twirling long lines of thread
Below men tending to the machines as they endlessly repeat their movements
He thinks he catches a smile from one young girl but she is gone in an instant
He is left hanging out of the top window watching clouds cross the moon
His only companion a rabbit hidden beneath the bed can be heard scratching
He feeds it leftover stale bread he’d been given that morning
Watches the endless repetitive machines coming and going over and over
The steady hum of machines that brought him to this place, steam and iron
The flicker of images that will be with him throughout these modern times
He thinks of his mother in confinement, his brother tending a bar in London
He hardly speaks except when on stage and wanders a different town weekly
Too late to play loudly he picks up his fiddle and bow one more time
And stood in the window, in moonlight, imagines himself a famous musician
He glides the bow gently across the strings, hardly a sound can be heard
He serenades the men and women below, all the world his stage forever…
A woman in her 80s suffering dementia suddenly remembers her mother speaking
About a night she saw Charlie Chaplin playing to the stars but no-one believed her
How one day he’d return and play one last reel for her….forever.
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