Venus Unshelled

For a feast that feeds the eye and ear in equal measure, it's hard to beat the unique fusion of performance poetry and figurative painting in Lydia Towsey's show THE VENUS PAPERS and its companion Scott Bridgwood exhibition. For one night only we enjoyed a consummate storyteller and a ravishing smorgasbord in one building. Throw in the wine and cupcakes and it was practically Dionysian.

 

Credit: http://www.uffizi.org/artworks/the-birth-of-venus-by-sandro-botticelli/

 

At the exhibition preview, there was plenty of time to immerse ourselves in the intimate and sensuous world of Bridgwood's nude sequence. I can't remember such a compelling 'muse' narrative since I came across Andrew Wyeth's Helga paintings. My favourites here were probably the earthy brown 'boxed-in' series but I also loved the cool aqua blue in certain paintings. And how the figures morph from charcoal sketching to broad-wash strokes to knots of solid flesh that insist on their female presence. The exhibition is open till Sunday the 12th February at the Attenborough Arts Centre on Lancaster Road Leicester (or take a peek at Bridgewood's on-line gallery). Gorgeous work.

 

 

Credit: Ambrose Musiyiwa & http://www.renaissanceone.co.uk/events/ 

 

 

Credit: Ambrose Musiyiwa

 

Meanwhile over in the theatre Lydia Towsey was impish, seductive, sad, satirical on the turn of a verse-line in her VENUS PAPERS show. Her deft performance took in a range of characters but we were always rooting for her modern washed-up migrant Venus. I loved the props - an ingenious pink plastic sculpture strung with light-bulbs to serve as her Botticelli 'Birth of Venus' shell; a pop-up book with scenes from Renaiisance art to Tabloid headlines; and then there were was musical accompaniment, clever sound effects and slapstick murders from her two accomplices David Dhonau and Ola Szmidt. It was a magical hour, an odyssey through memory and contemporary urban landscapes with a woman wholly in command of her craft. The show came courtesy of Renaissance One but Towsey's accompanying poetry collection from innovative indie press Burning Books is also well worth seeking out.

 

 

It's a while since I've been up to the Attenborough Arts Centre for an event. Sitting in the Princess of Wales Hall always makes me nostalgic because one of my very first shows, 'Stories Drummed to Polar Skies' was staged here. It's a great venue with decent stage, intimate but properly theatrical, and ideal for a poetry performance event like Towsey's. I was delighted to also visit the new Gallery extension which provides much-needed exhibition space for visual art in Leicester. Bridgwood's canvases of his Venus muse had room to breathe here and performance and painting spoke to each other throughout the evening in teasing allusions. Delicious.

Tommy's Scarf

Before the day closes, here is my act of remembrance. Back in 2014, this poem was inspired by the statue of an Unknown Soldier in Paddington Station. The Tommy is wearing a long hand-knit scarf over his uniform and reading a letter, perhaps from home.

 

 

 

Scarf

Her tapped-out knit-one-purl

was a private Morse code

as much lullaby as distress-call

between Field Service Postcards

from France. Her autumn spent

picking up and slipping stitches

to shoulder you from afar.

Today it is a coil of python

a slithering bundle of welted yarn

wrapping your jugular: a ribbed

belt of bullets machine-gun issue

pulling your bowed head to assent.

Then it was a muffler, her umbilical

shawl of twice-ravelled wool

that clicked and twitched

over many a clock-ticked night

into a candlewick fabric, elastic

boy-looped, long as a man:

a fleece itching with unsaid words

still warm with smells of her.

Did she cosset you, Tommy?

Fuss and mither you? Dab

spittle to polish you, tidy a wisp

of hair under your trench cap

when you defied her at last

and donned Kitchener's Blue?

Before this tasselled winding-cloth

you lay cat's cradled in a weft

of barbed-wire bindweed

that snagged on her name and stuck

for the two days it took to die.

A jagged casting-off attended by

No Man's rats and bluebottles.

Your fingers laced around her letter

in a certain light, are skeletal

but stubby nails, bent eyelashes

and boy-man jutting chin, are molten

unresolved, alive in metal.

 

Published in the Letters to an Unknown Soldier Anthology, ed. by Kate Pullinger & Bartlett  Nov. 2014. Written as part of a residency I led for 14-18-NOW and WEM in August 2014.

Where PHILAE Boldly Goes ...

We follow. #AreWeThereYet? What's not to love about a space mission that delivers more drama, danger and comebacks than a sci-fi franchise? Only last week, we got another cliff-hanger as space-craft Rosetta tracked down its long-lost lander Philae. Marvellous as the engineering has been, it's the imagination that's kept me riveted to my desktop porthole. ESA transported us across the solar system via our Twitter-feeds. Beam me down, Scottie. Those razor-sharp OSIRIS photos of comet 67P put me right there, kicking up carbon-dust.

 

 

Where early Egyptians drew constellations on coffin-lids to guide departing souls, ESA let us ride the stars. This virtual adventure inspired me to create a poet's saga for the digital age: Philae's Book of Hours. So Philae is a chattering soul-bird. And though its song has since fallen silent, it had us spellbound in its season. Its cometary resting-place Abydos was named for an ancient cemetery. In Egyptian mythology, after death a human-headed soul-bird flits between the lands of living and dead. I thought of ESA scientists at computers communing across vast distances to their metal avatar in this underworld. But Philae ventured into the dark on our behalf too, an android explorer probing an icy wilderness, an ingenious box of tricks sifting air and dirt for the secrets of creation. And most extraordinary of all, it talked to us. Well-named for an obelisk that unlocked an ancient language, it kept up a stuttering dialogue for days. #LifeOnAComet Its subsequent silence always hummed with the promise of more.

 

'You bide your time, faithful

as a mummified dog... When

you wake at last, Philae

you are babbling to yourself

a snakeskin song of telemetry

a cometary Book of Hours ...'

 

Rosetta is the mother-ship goddess, blue-winged like the protective figure of Isis, who knew a thing or two about resurrections. So whip-smart, quick on its feet, engineering with attitude. Think Princess Leia before the bikini. But this solar-panelled spacecraft could also be sun-god Ra's midnight barge crossing the dangerous realms of the afterlife. When ESA's scientists described the comet's icy jets as a 'living thing, a dragon waking up,' the storyteller in me was hooked. Rosetta's zig-zagging course was a pyramid trajectory. It had to dodge comet 67P's fierce outpourings, just as Ra and his 'crew of gods' had to steer past Apophis, the fire-spitting snake. Surely this is a classic Hero-Quest, a space-voyage in an aluminium boat on a wing and a prayer. Han Solo minus the laser-gun.

 

 

 

And then there is the comet, captured in mesmerising black-and-white shots in all its rugged variety. I am addicted to those OSIRIS close-ups. Tracts of wildernesses marked not by space-boot but by Philae's human-made SESAME feet. I see comet 67P as a book. Let's call it a book of maps, a cartography of 26 alien regions 'named for Gods of the Old Kingdom'. All very Star-Gate. ESA's Egyptian analogy for the space mission finds its fullest expression in their colour-coded maps of 67P's rocky terrains. Rosetta's own burial chamber will be a cometary pit of hell. I love that it's named for Deir-El-Medina, an Egyptian archaeological site filled with tomb-workers' rubble. But the comet is a book of spells too, a book that spits and fires and sings. A book that hides its secrets deep in pages of ice-dirt, in a crease of rock or sudden abyss:

 

'… The comet is spitting creatively

uncharted twinklings, carbon-glints,

constellations of grit, a cosmic

sneeze of light.'

 

Some Earthlings are sad that the mission is drawing to a close.* That we will cease our conversation across space with Rosetta's satellite. No more fly-by postcards from the underworld. No time-delayed messages from the box-robot forever hanging on its cliff. Yes, I'll miss all that. But the scientific stories that Rosetta-Philae gifted us are still being decoded. We will be thumbing the pages of 67P for decades to come. And this space-epic has already become a tale of us at our best, coming together in many languages, to achieve an extraordinary feat. No wonder we painted a face on Philae and begged it to call home. Like the Egyptians, we've daubed this fable on our walls. Rosetta and Philae are celebrated in our poems, rock albums, t-shirts, e-wallpapers, sculptures, cartoons, comet-shoes, installations and origami. They are already legends. As the Pyramid texts promise, 'you have died but you will live.'

 

 

 

* ESA has invited followers of Rosettta & Philae to 'Share your personal experiences and feelings about the mission' on a Rosetta Legacy Page. See: http://rosetta-legacy.tumblr.com/  This blog-post appeared there in September 2016.

WE ARE HERE Again

I was moved by pictures of yesterday's 'WE ARE HERE' Somme commemoration. More than 1,500 men appeared in WW1 uniforms in cities around the country. These 'ghost-soldiers' stood around silently in groups and if passing commuters or shoppers tried to talk to them, they handed out a small printed card with the name of a soldier who died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. It looked powerful on You-Tube clips so what must it have been like to witness it live? Since the 'life' of these dead soldiers was the point. From time to time they broke into a popular song from the WW1 trenches: 'We're here because ... we're here because ... we're here because we're here ...'  The circularity of the song's lyrics, sung to the tune  of Auld Lang's Syne, captures both the weary stoicism of front-line soldiers and the senselessness of the carnage that followed.

 

 

 

Many of these visitations occurred at railway stations, so associated with the transport of troops in 1914-18. Two years ago, I was leading a residential workshop to help members of the public find a way to write letters to the Unknown Soldier of Paddington Station. The Tommy on the plinth was one of 20,000 railworkers who lost their lives in the war. The letter campaign was an initiative launched by 14-18 NOW and supported by Writing East Midlands. Inevitably, it drew in writers who had very personal family histories from that period. And we began on day one of the week's course with the sounds of Paddington Railway station. For myself, this soundscape triggered a poem that, like yesterday's enactment, blurred the boundaries between then and now.

 

Station

Eyes half-closed, he hears

the pulse of place as a full-tilt stream

that familiar suppressed roar:

a piston's disconnect, whoofs of steam

those far-off whistles piercing

Paddington's glass-domed roof.

 

And then it's a day at the Somme

the Corporal's whistle insisting on 'NOW!'

A row of Tommies stumble to the top:

one man hesitating, is too slow,

his puteed legs sawing at the mud;

as his head clears the ridge

he slithers back, rifle abandoned

face-down in the trench.

And they are already gone, his comrades

over a weed-straggled field

vanished into shellfire and rain.

 

Those ruddy whistles – and right on time

the slamming of doors like the rat-a-tat

of machine gun fire; echoing calls,

the distant halloa of a guard

or a Pal down the Line:

boot-falls clattering on duckboard

commuters, day-trippers, the lost patrol

looking for a funk-hole:

a child crying Mumm-eee, lads

on the wire, the tink of mobile phones

metallic clinks high in the eaves

where nesting birds hide.

 

A tannoy announces a platform change

signal for this marching tide of feet

to work, to war, to the last troop train:

those bleeding whistles again.

Pistons and engines, now as then

sounding their Misere Mei

rising like Brunel's cast-iron girders.

Fractured light in the end-screen's filigree

curling like Tommy's last ciggie:

and after the battlefield, smoke

writhing between the splintered trees.

He listens and remembers it all

the boy on Platform One.

 

 

 

 

END

When Song Breaks in Leicester

 

This week is Refugee Week. It's not an appeal for charity but a countrywide celebration of how our communities are enriched by migrants - exactly as Jo Cox outlined in her maiden speech. "While we celebrate our diversity, what surprises me time and time again ... is that we are far more united and have far more in common with each other than things that divide us.”

 

At this moment in 2016, we more than ever need to celebrate not only the contributions of refugees but the possibilities that solidarity bring for all of us. We have done some hard mourning this week. Now we will do some singing of our shared story.

 

Credit: Ambrose Musiyiwa

 

Local organisers from the Leicester British Red Cross promise a day of 'A free and fun day out for all the family, a fusion of talented musicians, dancers and performers all drumming up noise for Refugee Week.' I've been lucky enough to be involved in Refugee Week Celebrations in this city for a few years now. And I especially pleased this year to be taking part in readings from an anthology published in 2015 to raise funds and support for refugee charities: the 'Over Land, Over Seas' anthology by Five Leaves Press. 'An anthology of 102 poems expressing solidarity with the refugees who are currently receiving so little welcome as they take to boats and rafts to cross the Mediterranean and make their way with difficulty through Europe. Readers are invited to take a view of the situation which is not governed by the fear and hatred whipped up by the language of media and many politicians.' You can hear some of these remarkable poems on the acoustic stage in Leicester's Town Hall Square from about 11.45 onwards.

 

 

 

 

Later in the same week I'll be joining co-editors Emma Lee and Kathy Bell with other readers at an event called VOICED on Thursday 23rd June at the Exchange Bar from 6pm onwards. This will again feature artists and musicians, including those from the refugee community. Poetry and story will be interwoven through a fabric of sound: 'HAIKI - blending soul and jazz sounds deriving from Ethiopia, MARCUS JOSEPH, who combines resonating rhymes and smooth saxophone'.

 

Finally if you want to get a flavour of what a vibrant joyful celebration of refugees in Leicester looks like, check out these wonderful photos from Ambrose Musiyiwa from the 2014 event in Town Hall Square. We were rained off last year but are hoping for a break from the Leicester monsoon this weekend! Either way we'll be making the music of our shared humanity. Join us why don't you if you're out and about.

Buds of March

Like early spring flowers, Facebook today is studded with Likes and little thumbs-up Posts of delight. It's the Day After Independence. Or 'States' as we returnees know it. On a sunny Saturday, the corridors of DMU's Clephan Building thronged with book lovers, lit. addicts, small press publishers, editors, readers, printers, writers, friends old and new. The walls were lined with lovingly-crafted volumes and chapbooks, the halls were packed with punters catching words of wisdom or wit from speakers on an array of topics. This year 'events include(d) talks on Victorian women writers, independent publishing, Nordic crime, the 1916 Easter Uprising, women in graphic fiction, David Bowie, the Vikings, and the announcement of the 2016 East Midlands Book Award shortlist.' Not even the unlikely spring sunshine could drag us outdoors.

 

 

 

The annual States of Independence Publishers fair is hosted by a formidable alliance of Five Leaves Press and De Montfort University's Creative Writing department. I've been going to 'States' right since its beginning in 2010 and so can properly be described as a fan or groupie of this annual press-fest. So imagine my excitement at becoming part of the organising team this year! The students were brilliant but it is really the community of writers and creatives who come from around the region and as far afield as Norfolk who make this event so joyful and informative each year.

 

 

And here's a few of my personal highlights this year ...

 

First up, a panel on Writers doing it themselves -  on the challenge and benefits of 'self-publishing'. This featured an author of several aliases - Nicola Monaghan/Niki Valentine - who has recently 'dipped her toe' and then several feet into indie-publishing after previous books by Vintage Books etc. She commented on her surprise at how easy - 'almost too easy in a way' - it was to design and upload an e-book. But then comes the challenge of doing all those jobs a traditional publisher does for you - suddenly you're the legal/ marketing/ distribution/ accounting depts. and more. Niki had found it a positive experience so far and offered lots of tips on good sources of info. out there - as well as 'the sharks'. Another indie-author Russ spoke of writing for a niche market of LGBT fiction and focusing on sales at events as much as via social media. He offered hard-won insider know-how on the complexities and costs of book distribution for indie-authors and there was general agreement that hard-copy products are far less likely to turn a profit for indie-authors. Further invaluable advice was offered by Pippa Hennessy of Five Leaves Press. From her vantage point as a copy-editor, publisher, book-seller and Development Director for the Nottingham Writers Studio, she knows how hard it is to shift copies of self-published books if they don't look 'absolutely professional' and properly edited and designed. But be wary of self-styled 'experts' offering to charge an arm and a leg to do all that for you - do your research first before committing large sums of money.

 

Next we warmed ourselves on the solidarity and beautiful poetry of the Over Land, Over Sea anthology This book, published for free by Five Leaves, has raised £3,000 for refugee charities in a few short months. As one of the editors, I know the quality of the poems selected was very high. But each time we do a reading, I re-discover new voices, new stories and am moved afresh by the elegance and compassion of the writing.

 

I moved from this community of poetic voices into a still dark space with one voice only. The almost-whispered, haunting elegies of Simon Perrill's latest Beneath collection had me mesmerised. I love collections that tell a story and this reached far into ancient Greek history to bring us a tale of Archilochus and his lost bride Neobulé . 'The soldier-poet’s scurrilous response (to a cancelled marriage) shamed the entire family into committing suicide. Beneath tracks Neobulé’s arrival in Hades; and voices her gradual understanding of shadehood.' Simon Perril accompanied his reading with a stunning Photo-story montage that evoked a dark, grainy underworld in which Neobulé wanders. Rhythmically cut, it was music for the eyes as much as ears. Utterly spellbinding. And now I have both Shearsman collections featuring Archilocus (moon-exiled) and Neobulé (Hades-bound) in which to lose myself.

 

After a hasty lunch, I caught up with another celebration of the rich literature of this region at an East Midlands Book Awards gathering to announce this year's short-list. A wonderfully diverse short-list - memoir, poetry, novels, children's picture book - was revealed and the six authors read beautifully. Tom Preston's 'The Boy in the Mirror' delivered a quiet but poetic intensity in his cancer-survivor's memoir. Jonathon Taylor and Steven Dunne both offered mystery and humour in their respective novels. Dunne's crime thriller 'A Killing Moon' and Taylor's magical lit-fic 'Melissa' both summoned up the atmosphere of a whole community in a brief encounter. Eve Makis seduced us with a curmudgeonly great-uncle, his family secrets and the scents of his Armenian 'Spice Box Letters'. And Jess Green set the room on fire with an impassioned and comic reading from her 'Burning Books' debut collection. It's published by 'never knowingly mainstream' Burning Eye Press who are putting together an exciting list of spoken word artists who light up the page and stage. Overall a cracking short-list and congratulations to all six on their well-deserved nominations!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red Moon at the Door

A poem to celebrate the big red moon that's going to roll into our skies in the early hours of tomorrow. This one was inspired by the last time I witnessed a lunar eclipse.








 

 

Blood Moon

 

a harvest spider

rolls paralysed prey

in plasma cocoon

 

a nicotine thumb

intrudes, penumbral blot

on spinster light

 

old master daubing

rose-gold flesh with umber

chiaroscuro

earth's basilisk breath

scorching elliptical slices

for amber teeth

 

till a raw knuckle

exposed, blood-smeared

knocks at our sky

 

 

 

 

 

(c) Siobhan Logan 2015

 

 

 

 

blood moon = red 'totality' of lunar eclipse

Sun Spot Singing

My first ever solar eclipse and since we won't get such a full-on show again before 2090, I'm surely unlikely to repeat the experience. So here's a special poem it inspired. We've been entranced all week by the BBC's Stargazing Live coverage. Unable to get hold of the necessary glasses, I enlisted my father-in-law David Thomas to help me construct a cardboard viewer. As it turned out, Leicester was in a corridor of sunshine with ideal conditions. While the street darkened around us, we peered at that tiny reflected circle. Awesome.




Credit BBC at: http://news.bbcimg.co.uk/media/images/81787000/jpg/_81787003_proba-2_view_of_europe_s_solar_eclipse.jpg

Obscura

minute

pin-hole sun

a speck of fire

chromosphere spark

piercing cardboard sky

unstarred & solitary

a solar particle

bitten by dark

moon smile

on cue

 

 

 

 

 

punched

sun-crescent

dusks the morning

chills a lunar breeze

from bird-muffled trees

but planet hushed we

squint on twilit street

catch that lidded

furnace eye

closed

(c) Siobhan Logan 20^th March 2015