I spent most of my final year at University reading the plays of Dennis Potter in a dark corner of the library. Laudable, perhaps; but I was supposed to be reading Plato. Scottish poetry for me, then, did not exist. I had never been introduced to it. Call me a late starter.
I joined a writing group. Very soon a trip was organised to go and see Norman MacCaig 'doing a reading'. I remember the event, but I don't remember the location. Stirling? Bridge of Allan? Somewhere around there. It was him and Brian McCabe. McCabe I had heard of - I'd read his short stories. But who was this other man, this MacCaig that everyone was raving about?
McCabe was wonderful, reading poems and excerpts from his prose. Then the break. Wine out of cardboard boxes, of course. I could have done with another glass, but people were moving back to their seats. I found an empty chair in the front row. Introduction, and a polite ripple of applause. A tall, skinny man in a Tweed jacket loped into view. He stood directly in front of me, a fly smile on his lips. He opened the book he was holding and began to read.
There are moments in life that we all remember. They're called turning points. As MacCaig continued to recite - about Ancient Greeks, stones, oceans and frogs (frogs?), I knew that I had reached a turning point. The man was a genius. And all the while, that smile on his lips, and dancing round the edges of his eyes, as if he were daring us to laugh.
I saw him one more time. We got off the same train at Queen Street in Glasgow. He was walking along the platform in front of me. I knew it was him - the gait, the jacket. I wanted to speak, but what was there to say? 'Hello, I liked your poems'? Sometimes it is better to say nothing. Perhaps we can then make a poem of it. I'm sure Norman would have understood.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Dodgems
Deserted funfair in the rain.
Just the two of us.
A day out after so many years.
You're looking well, I say.
We'd go on all the rides,
but there's no one there.
At last.
Dodgems.
My God they're fast, I say.
We skim the rink in ever-decreasing circles.
It's like a dance.
Then we're poles apart.
Suddenly,
you're hurtling towards me.
The picture freezes:
Your hands on the wheel -
and that smile -
that smile -
Then it's over.
We're moving again.
You steer right,
I steer right.
The collision never takes place.
Sometimes,
a smile
or its memory
takes you back
to an idea
of what happiness was
but wasn't.
Sometimes,
even on Dodgems,
collisions can't be avoided.
Just the two of us.
A day out after so many years.
You're looking well, I say.
We'd go on all the rides,
but there's no one there.
At last.
Dodgems.
My God they're fast, I say.
We skim the rink in ever-decreasing circles.
It's like a dance.
Then we're poles apart.
Suddenly,
you're hurtling towards me.
The picture freezes:
Your hands on the wheel -
and that smile -
that smile -
Then it's over.
We're moving again.
You steer right,
I steer right.
The collision never takes place.
Sometimes,
a smile
or its memory
takes you back
to an idea
of what happiness was
but wasn't.
Sometimes,
even on Dodgems,
collisions can't be avoided.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Source
Trying to breath meaning into the shadow of a ghost of a memory of a former self. Trying to understand.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
How to write a novel
You start with an idea, a line of dialogue, a place. It's as simple as that. Then you write. And write and write and write until you think you have come to an ending. Then you leave it. Then you come back to it and see how terrible it is. You throw away the rubbish - hopefully there will be something left for you to work with. So you go back to the start, and write and write and write until you have come to an ending, which may or may not be the ending you came to before. Then you leave it. Then you come back to it and see how terrible it is - but this time, it is not as terrible as it was the first time. There is still rubbish, though, so you throw the rubbish away. Hopefully, there is more left for you to work with. So you go back to the start and write and write and write...this process goes on for months, perhaps years. The trick is to know when to stop and say, That's it. Then you go on to the next thing. You start with an idea, a line of dialogue, a place. It's as simple as that. Then you write.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Drunk Man, Hunched Over His Glass
Don't laugh at me,
young scallywags
and painted dolls.
You use this place,
my place,
a stepping stone to
all points West.
I used to be like you,
alive, I had it all.
The games, the loves,
so long ago.
Don't laugh at me
or at my tears.
I envy you
your years.
young scallywags
and painted dolls.
You use this place,
my place,
a stepping stone to
all points West.
I used to be like you,
alive, I had it all.
The games, the loves,
so long ago.
Don't laugh at me
or at my tears.
I envy you
your years.
Sunday, 3 October 2010
An Old Story
I look at him sitting there,
looking at me,
looking at his mother,
who's got her hands in her lap.
She's looking at the floor.
He tells me about it.
The.
Same.
Old.
Story.
(I try not to yawn
as I look at my watch)
The confusion.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
(At this point I reach for my pad)
The visits at
2, 4 ,5, 7 a.m.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
The visits at...
'Yes, yes,'
I say.
'Dementia.'
I scribble on my pad and
simultaneously
push a leaflet across the desk.
Multitasking.
What a doctor I am.
'A tablet before she goes to bed at night.
Read the leaflet.'
He pays me with a crisp note,
then guides his mother to the door.
The waiting room is full.
I look at my watch.
5 minutes.
Oh, yes.
Medicine.
It's a vocation.
looking at me,
looking at his mother,
who's got her hands in her lap.
She's looking at the floor.
He tells me about it.
The.
Same.
Old.
Story.
(I try not to yawn
as I look at my watch)
The confusion.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
(At this point I reach for my pad)
The visits at
2, 4 ,5, 7 a.m.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
The visits at...
'Yes, yes,'
I say.
'Dementia.'
I scribble on my pad and
simultaneously
push a leaflet across the desk.
Multitasking.
What a doctor I am.
'A tablet before she goes to bed at night.
Read the leaflet.'
He pays me with a crisp note,
then guides his mother to the door.
The waiting room is full.
I look at my watch.
5 minutes.
Oh, yes.
Medicine.
It's a vocation.
My Gaff
The Landlord
twisted his key
in the lock
and pushed the door
open.
I moved forwards,
but he stopped me with a hand.
Listen,
he smiled,
and pressed the bell.
There was the sound of a canary
being electrocuted
within.
Very early
in our relationship,
I realised
my Landlord
was a wanker.
twisted his key
in the lock
and pushed the door
open.
I moved forwards,
but he stopped me with a hand.
Listen,
he smiled,
and pressed the bell.
There was the sound of a canary
being electrocuted
within.
Very early
in our relationship,
I realised
my Landlord
was a wanker.
Saturday, 2 October 2010
Rod's Gaff
He told me,
with a weary smile,
that it was on the fourth floor
above a baker's.
A 're-ti-reh', he said,
which translates as 'penthouse'.
We walked, hunched in our coats
against the Vardaris
blowing ice
all the way down from Russia.
I knew we'd arrived -
I could smell the bread.
We climbed the dank stairs,
me counting the floors.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a heavy door,
which Rod pushed open with his shoulder.
We emerged onto the roof of the building.
I thought he was having me on.
The penthouse,
the 're-ti-reh',
took up all of one corner,
past piles of second hand bricks
and stacks of Yester Year's tyres.
The walls of Rod's gaff were flimsy sheets of tin, and glass;
his roof was flaps of corrugated rust.
Rod had his key in his hand.
Listen,
he said,
with Vardaris tears in his eyes.
In storms,
like today,
the rattle is deafening.
with a weary smile,
that it was on the fourth floor
above a baker's.
A 're-ti-reh', he said,
which translates as 'penthouse'.
We walked, hunched in our coats
against the Vardaris
blowing ice
all the way down from Russia.
I knew we'd arrived -
I could smell the bread.
We climbed the dank stairs,
me counting the floors.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a heavy door,
which Rod pushed open with his shoulder.
We emerged onto the roof of the building.
I thought he was having me on.
The penthouse,
the 're-ti-reh',
took up all of one corner,
past piles of second hand bricks
and stacks of Yester Year's tyres.
The walls of Rod's gaff were flimsy sheets of tin, and glass;
his roof was flaps of corrugated rust.
Rod had his key in his hand.
Listen,
he said,
with Vardaris tears in his eyes.
In storms,
like today,
the rattle is deafening.
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Songs The Lightning Sang by Geoff Cooper - A Review
Songs The Lightning Sang by Geoff Cooper
Calder Wood Press, 2010
ISBN 978-1-902629-32-2
I have been reading a lot of poetry collections over the last few months. Many of them are extremely good. None, however, is of the same calibre as Geoff Cooper's 'Songs The Lightning Sang' (Calder Wood Press, 2010). Each poem in this work will affect you at an emotional level. This is not to say that it is a maudlin work - on the contrary. The book is a mighty celebration of what it is to be alive. This is Cooper's first collection, although it would not be fitting to describe it as his debut. One wonders where the poet has been hiding. It would appear that he has been patiently honing his craft, and, having mastered that craft, has now decided to give us a taste of his labours. This is a collection written by a man who knows exactly what he, and his poetry, is about. Take this, from the very start of the book. I will take the liberty of reproducing it in full:
Songs The Lightning Sings
The rain dissolves and carries mountains
The continents shift their rafts of stone and soil
Lightning remembers other worlds
Some hope that love is the last essential
some dream that words are a light in the darkness
but love is the measure of your loneliness
love is a cry you must answer
yourselves
This is your pain and your challenge
your gods are made
of your fears and desires
I sing with neither sense nor melody
my song does not need you or your words
This is the song that the lightning sings
This is the song of the world
And so it goes on, through ancient landscapes of mountains, cliffs, rivers. Cooper is a poet who is not ashamed to express his awe at the enormity of our surroundings. Nor does he shy away from the fact that we are minuscule in comparison. And this is his central theme: we live in a glorious world, and let us rejoice at our place in it. We are human, it is in our nature to look and to wonder. Not only this, it is also our place to try to express this wonder, whether in paint or in ink. Cooper is an admirer of many artists, Marc Chagall among them. He goes deep into the painter and the painting:
Village Painting by Marc Chagall
...There is blood on the roofs of the houses;
have no fear - it is only the blood of a painter -
Then
... - Jews are not erlaubt
within the perimeter fence of a painting
Cooper is a poet with range. From the darkness of Village Painting, we move on to Red Fruit, where his imagination is allowed to run wild (though not uncontrolled) as he delights in Bonnard's Fruits Sur Un Tapis Rouge:
...but a young girl I think is answering the door
...
She will walk beneath red parasols
through avenues vortexed with flame
shoulders bare to the gathering of stars
All of this is enthralling stuff, but it is when writing directly about human relationships that Cooper really sets the page alight. There is tragedy, yes, though not without humour. A Piano Player tells the story of an old woman playing Schubert down the pub. The punters are amazed, but:
...her boyfriend's
nose-down in the beer-mat pools, listening
to the lullabies of whisky in his head
In How it ends (for Debbie):
The heron is a thin hieroglyph on the headland
a devotee of patient murder
And, in Tonight:
We began to whisper in acid a wind
shook the flautist out of the branches
we had christened it 'love' - did it escape then
into the painful bright maw of that moon
The collection ends as it begins, brilliantly. This, from The Explorer, in which Cooper makes it clear what he is all about:
...poetry, he writes,
...Must go so brave and deep
inside others, and beyond ourselves.
must puzzle out
what's furthest, hardest,
yes, poetry must seek out
All those other human worlds.
This is poetry that you will react to. And you will react to it, on an emotional, not on a visceral level; Cooper is a poet whose work calls out to the human in all of us. Come and look, he seems to be saying. Come and look, and rejoice in what we are. Open your eyes. Look all around you. See those mountains, see those birds in the reeds. Look at these colours, see what art we can create. Look closely. See the glory of it all. Throughout 'Songs The Lightning Sang', one can sense an almost tangible passion for words, and a passion for sharing the essence of being human. It is an essence common to all of us, and it is a passion that should be shared. Cooper acknowledges this as only a master poet can, being at once profound and accessible.
'Songs The Lightning Sang' is an outstanding collection. It is available at the link below.
http://www.zen39641.zen.co.uk/cwp/cat.htm
Calder Wood Press, 2010
ISBN 978-1-902629-32-2
I have been reading a lot of poetry collections over the last few months. Many of them are extremely good. None, however, is of the same calibre as Geoff Cooper's 'Songs The Lightning Sang' (Calder Wood Press, 2010). Each poem in this work will affect you at an emotional level. This is not to say that it is a maudlin work - on the contrary. The book is a mighty celebration of what it is to be alive. This is Cooper's first collection, although it would not be fitting to describe it as his debut. One wonders where the poet has been hiding. It would appear that he has been patiently honing his craft, and, having mastered that craft, has now decided to give us a taste of his labours. This is a collection written by a man who knows exactly what he, and his poetry, is about. Take this, from the very start of the book. I will take the liberty of reproducing it in full:
Songs The Lightning Sings
The rain dissolves and carries mountains
The continents shift their rafts of stone and soil
Lightning remembers other worlds
Some hope that love is the last essential
some dream that words are a light in the darkness
but love is the measure of your loneliness
love is a cry you must answer
yourselves
This is your pain and your challenge
your gods are made
of your fears and desires
I sing with neither sense nor melody
my song does not need you or your words
This is the song that the lightning sings
This is the song of the world
And so it goes on, through ancient landscapes of mountains, cliffs, rivers. Cooper is a poet who is not ashamed to express his awe at the enormity of our surroundings. Nor does he shy away from the fact that we are minuscule in comparison. And this is his central theme: we live in a glorious world, and let us rejoice at our place in it. We are human, it is in our nature to look and to wonder. Not only this, it is also our place to try to express this wonder, whether in paint or in ink. Cooper is an admirer of many artists, Marc Chagall among them. He goes deep into the painter and the painting:
Village Painting by Marc Chagall
...There is blood on the roofs of the houses;
have no fear - it is only the blood of a painter -
Then
... - Jews are not erlaubt
within the perimeter fence of a painting
Cooper is a poet with range. From the darkness of Village Painting, we move on to Red Fruit, where his imagination is allowed to run wild (though not uncontrolled) as he delights in Bonnard's Fruits Sur Un Tapis Rouge:
...but a young girl I think is answering the door
...
She will walk beneath red parasols
through avenues vortexed with flame
shoulders bare to the gathering of stars
All of this is enthralling stuff, but it is when writing directly about human relationships that Cooper really sets the page alight. There is tragedy, yes, though not without humour. A Piano Player tells the story of an old woman playing Schubert down the pub. The punters are amazed, but:
...her boyfriend's
nose-down in the beer-mat pools, listening
to the lullabies of whisky in his head
In How it ends (for Debbie):
The heron is a thin hieroglyph on the headland
a devotee of patient murder
And, in Tonight:
We began to whisper in acid a wind
shook the flautist out of the branches
we had christened it 'love' - did it escape then
into the painful bright maw of that moon
The collection ends as it begins, brilliantly. This, from The Explorer, in which Cooper makes it clear what he is all about:
...poetry, he writes,
...Must go so brave and deep
inside others, and beyond ourselves.
must puzzle out
what's furthest, hardest,
yes, poetry must seek out
All those other human worlds.
This is poetry that you will react to. And you will react to it, on an emotional, not on a visceral level; Cooper is a poet whose work calls out to the human in all of us. Come and look, he seems to be saying. Come and look, and rejoice in what we are. Open your eyes. Look all around you. See those mountains, see those birds in the reeds. Look at these colours, see what art we can create. Look closely. See the glory of it all. Throughout 'Songs The Lightning Sang', one can sense an almost tangible passion for words, and a passion for sharing the essence of being human. It is an essence common to all of us, and it is a passion that should be shared. Cooper acknowledges this as only a master poet can, being at once profound and accessible.
'Songs The Lightning Sang' is an outstanding collection. It is available at the link below.
http://www.zen39641.zen.co.uk/cwp/cat.htm
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Book Update.
It was so good giving Drive! an airing at the Fringe. But let me be clear - I am not a performance artist. The goal was to get the book out there and just let it happen. It is now clear to me - as I am sure it was at some subconscious level from the outset - that it doesn't work like that. It has to be seen to be out there. This is why I am so happy with the progress in libraries. Work there will continue throughout the following months. I could not be happier with the reader reviews the book has been getting on Amazon, but I feel that perhaps it is time to bring in a Scottish publisher to help with distribution over there. I have no complaints with the progress of the book so far, but there is only so much one can achieve on the Internet. A physical presence in bookshops in Scotland would help. If any of my blog followers have any ideas or suggestions, please feel free to post.
Drive! by Andrew McCallum Crawford.
ISBN 978-960-99296-0-8
Skepdek Publishing (Greece).
Available in the UK on Amazon.co.uk
Have a look at the reviews.
£7.24
Drive! by Andrew McCallum Crawford.
ISBN 978-960-99296-0-8
Skepdek Publishing (Greece).
Available in the UK on Amazon.co.uk
Have a look at the reviews.
£7.24
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)