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RUPERT
M. LOYDELL Rupert
M. Loydell was the
Managing Editor of Stride Publications, and is currently the Editor of Stride
magazine, as well as Reviews Editor of Orbis, Associate Editor of Avocado
magazine and a regular contributor of articles and reviews to Tangents
magazine. During 2003-2004, he was a Royal Literary Fund Project Fellow, working
in Exeter schools, following a RLF Fellowship at Bath University. In 2004-2005,
he was a RLF Fellow at Warwick University and Visiting Poet at Sherborne School.
He is currently a Lecturer in Creative Writing at University College Falmouth.
His publications include A Conference of Voices, The Museum of Light
and Endlessly Divisible, and four collaborative works. He has worked in
hundreds of schools and colleges, and run workshops for the Arvon Foundation.
A POEM'S NOT FOR PEOPLE
WRONGFOOTED
Fingermarked
CD sings and whistles, clicks
and repeats, over and over. I am planning
ahead and writing before required. The
collaboration is going well though it is
difficult to remember who is writing what. Sound
does not carry some deeper message; however
much you gather and assemble you
are still well and truly lost. The story with
no ending starts to resemble a city you
once visited where the cold and snow made
mapping bright and believable. Today this
alley is dark and you are a passer-by. I
am really nervous now. Let the guidebook fall
at your feet and learn to listen. Music is
a luxury to ward off thought's demands. When
it comes to dialogue I would rather stay
silent and let you do all the talking. There
are familiar faces in the paintings and
the waiter seems to remember us from
the last time we ate here. Everything
becomes itself if we rely upon
self-revelation and clear reception. So
whose turn is it now? There are emails from
all over but no record of my replies. I
never wanted much but the noise in
the street this morning is distracting. Drills
and dogs, lorries and kids, are
not the why behind the what. Please
stop by soon and disagree. If
you can only see the parts and not the
whole then the process isn't working. If
you can only see the road and not the
way home then you will be diverted. It
must be your turn now to speak; I
have to turn the record over and
learn again how to think. This
song is fatally flawed. I end up talking
to myself and not listening to the
words. I must write something simple and
teach myself to dance. It's not that I've
been wrongfooted, more a sudden blip. TREADING
SOME WELL-WORN TRACKS Intrigued
by sequences and projects as published, I
test tube the world and falsify writing in the desert. Love
transcends revelation and challenge; the
majority of poetry bores me. Individual poets' work excites
but is so often just ferret emptiness. Revelation
uses alphabetical or other structural devices, prose
poems with fraudulent habitats and wildlife, test-tube
culture and socio-politics. Fear is becoming the
fastest growing experience in the shock of the world; a
kind of framing device in the book of interviews I reviewed. Send
us peace and turmoil, bumps and irregularities, a
life supply of spirit. List all bizarre poems that are witty and
light up the dark, stop writing for quite a while, try
to allow paper for all. Get used to new ways and things that
can't work; readers aren't stupid unless they choose to be. Freeriding
gives associative deserts, offering several
intelligent ways to paddle through words if
an author is finding it difficult, a famous writing journey: the
wasteland versus inspiration, ostrich tossed in time, with
selected poems as a physical accomplishment. I
turn to the deep possibilities opened up. Poetry doesn't
have arctic expanses, tell stories or say anything, it
can be playful, arranged visually, can try and reproduce the
fastest growing way we think and challenge. Now I
have wildlife, wasteland, space open and seemingly casual. Poetry
should infuriate, bemuse, annoy and puzzle, help construct
a place. I calculate habitats and conversations with
the mind, a sponge originally designed by NASA. Space
is a physical, spiritual oasis the reader can dance in; its
very promise a spiritual global positioning device. COUNTERFEIT
WORD JAR for
rob mclennan Each
new word having the final say. Places
no one would feather duster or
think to look. Oh, what a bust, bit
of a counterfeit lemon curd jar, no
longer open or undisturbed, unaffected
by the particulars of change. Where
were you when I started speaking? You
wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm
still here recognising familiar marks, learning
in the end what the cost is, making
molehills out of mountaineers. Even
trends are no longer fashionable. I
refuse to believe premonitions I've had. I
say that we is all accidental, with only the
faintest outline putting out a thin finger. Smart
deck-chair monkeys keep their mouths shut, standing
to hope again. Not even this is constant; I
have entered the ranks of the anonymous. You,
once you hit something, break it: lines
so sharp, embedded in clean skin. I
means it, she says, it's a hell of a date. Screeching
laughter leaves the faintest scar, helter-skelter
haemorrhage would sacrifice you on
the telephone. I want to call, restless whilst idle. I
calculate association so it must be true. When
was the last time you saw charred bone? No
going back, nine-times-nine days have gone. Step
away to leave until she gets back and
you, too, begin to jump and swirl, dreaming
months beyond reconstruction. Co-operative
random slacker of self & epic proportion, I
would like to dedicate a life supply of hangovers to you. I'll
lighthouse rough earth, become impossible to hurt. Please,
I have long intent for another thirty years: compelling,
awe-inspiring & masterful; an end on
top of another one. I can't slow down just yet. NOTHING
MORE There
are counsellors in the school hall and
we've all received a letter home. Everyone
wants to talk, but I would rather be
on my own and try to work out what is
going on. Late last night there were drummers
practising behind our house. Throbbing
rhythms with percussion ornamenting
primal thump. My daughter could
hear them too, it wasn't imagination. The
mist hasn't quite cleared from my brain this
morning, although we managed to
get the kids off to nursery and school. Everything
used to be straightforward, now
its all rushing around to find time, learning
how to explain, how to swim through
homework, clubs and childcare toward
the day job. It's bitter outside. How
could anyone kill their child? Covered in
mud and realising what we have done we
make our way toward confession and
arrest. Weak tea and soft voices can't
undo what has happened. The beat went
on and on, rocking me to sleep. The
police and school issue statements; sun
burns away the haze, drying out the
flowers and moisture in the air. Everyone
is talking to themselves, wondering
if they could have helped or
if there is anything to do now. Pockets
of grief trip me up all day. I'm
staying put and imposing media silence although
local news have already dropped the
story. There's nothing more to say. CRUMBS
for
Brian Today,
I imagined you drinking tea from
a china cup and saucer, and dropping
crumbs on the brown jacket you
always wear. Peering uncertainly at
the world in a steamed-up café, you
were wondering how to capture the
past, which has yet to catch up with
itself in this small Dorset town. In
the abbey, someone wanted to
tell me all about the place, wouldn't
let the silence speak. I
smiled thinly and moved away. Later,
I saw you in the park, scarf and
overcoat on, pondering what to
write, wondering why the world had
changed and wouldn't let you be. The
past is attractive, but now the train is
taking me home. Even there, tomorrow has
yet to arrive. I dunk my biscuit in
memory and watch time drip away. POETRY
LETTERS
Dear
Neil It's
easy, isn't it? You just put
words in a row until the end of
the line, then do it again on
the next. After a while your
poem grinds to a halt and
you write another one. There's
no trick to it, no waiting
for the muse to
whisper in your ear. Words
are where it's at, language
the stuff to
be waded around in and
organised how you will. Of
course, reading as much as
you can always helps: poems
you don't want to like, things
you don't understand, old
favourites and what's just
come out. That's why I
review and run a magazine - free
books and launch events. There's
far too much poetry about,
and most of it is bad. Self-confession,
self-expression, people
with something to say. Which
usually means a long lecture
on a favourite cause or
details of some epiphany, an
emotional response which I'm
sure was very moving at
the time, but not now, least
not the way it's been described.
And what is it with bad
design and scruffy booklets in
this day and age? I mean computers
are two a penny, you'd
think people would try! But
then you'd think people would
think, and they don't. If
people haven't got the nous to
read about what they are trying
to write, it's no wonder the
stuff turns out so bad. We all had
to start somewhere, I know, but
not like that, surely? *
Dear
Neil It's
my book launch tomorrow, which
means buying drinks for
everyone and trying to flog enough
copies to pay the bill. I
guess if I was truly ruthless I
wouldn't give away freebies, I'd
insist everyone must pay, but
I prefer to have friends than
unwilling customers, readers
than boxes of books. Of
course, it will be good to
see some of those who turn up; it's
always surprising who does. But
there'll also be the writer who
wants to corner me for advice; an
author who 'happens to have' several
unpublished books with her, in
handwritten loose-leaved form; the
bloke whose work I've refused to
publish, wanting to know why; and
worst of all, the local loony ready
to argue for free booze. *
Dear
Neil Well,
I didn't sell many books but
I wasn't really surprised - I
couldn't hear myself speak over
the noise in the bar. There
were three things all
on at once, so no-one was
really quite sure what they
were there for. Except for
the open-mike brigade, who
knew exactly what: to
read poems to one other. Heaven
forbid that they'd buy
a book! What would they
want to do that for? Still,
they didn't drink much; our
table had to deal with the
bottles of leftover wine after
they'd trooped back in for
part two of their event. And
I only got asked once what
my work was about. 'Language,'
I said. 'Would you like
a drink? I know I would.' That
seemed to do the trick, she
didn't hang around. *
Dear
Neil I
haven't sat behind a table trying
to flog poetry books for
over a decade now. Today
reminded me why. The
sunniest day of the year and
I'm upstairs in the library. All
the publishers knew each other and
grunted hello if they were on speaking
terms. If they weren't, they
didn't. The 'extra publicity' was
a handwritten sheet of paper sellotaped
to the wall with an arrow pointing
up; perhaps a dozen people took
note throughout the day. And
some bright spark decided we
needed poetry readings to liven
things up. I sloped off and
after lunch traded for some
books I'd had my eye on, packed
up early and came home. *
Dear
Neil When
I start moaning about editors
producing pedestrian anthologies,
or reviewers who
miss the point, or just poetry
in general, it's best to
ignore me, or just buy me another
drink. I soon run out of
steam and quieten down. Andy's
right when he says he
can't be bothered listening to
us all 'shouting at each other in
the playground'. The poetry world's
too small, but somehow tempers
and hackles get raised. 'A
bitch of poets' is one of those true
clichés, we're simply made that
way. On a serious note though, why
are so many writers happy to
churn out the stuff they do? There's
so much to be excited by, so
many ways to write, such brilliant
books to read. And yet if
you believed newspaper reviews or
what's on bookshop shelves, you'd
soon give up on poetry, which
is exactly what readers have
done. It's nothing to do with
relevance, accessibility or
rhyme, they're just bored. Me
too. And probably you. *
Dear
Neil The
latest issue arrived. What is
the editor on? More letters and
chat than poems, and his wife
gets another article in, as
she does every time! I've tried
to suggest things when he
occasionally asks for ideas, but
it seems like they're always ignored.
You or I couldn't make a
magazine duller if we wanted to. You'd
think free verse hadn't been invented,
that there is only one way
to writeŠ On these pages the
empire never ended, and the
country's never been to war. William
Burroughs wrote about words
being a time machine - this
limp paperback's the proof. I'm
ashamed to be in it, but no-one
else would take the poem. I
won't be sending them anything
else
again, you can be sure of that! Although
that squib about the dark might
fit, or the one about me lost at
sea and listening to the waves. You
know the one? You didn't like it at
all, but then what do you know? You
don't edit a magazine like me or
know the right kind of people. It's
who you know that matters far
more than what you write. You
must have learnt that by now? *
Dear
Neil My
tongue is
firmly in my cheek.
copyright
© Rupert M. Loydell |