Don't believe the hype

I'd have to say I wasn't one of those who was bowled over by Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident Of The Dog In the Night-time when it came out a few years back. It was a perfectly enjoyable read, but a bit uninvolving, and I didn't think the central character particularly captured the psyche of an Asperger's Syndrome sufferer (from my admittedly very limited experience of them).
When Haddon's first poetry collection, The Talking Horse And The Sad Girl And The Village Under The Sea, came out in 2005, I read a few reviews of it (they were very mixed), and forgot about it.
Recently, though, I've been trying to give the credit card a rest and borrowing poetry collections from the library, rather than splashing out, and when I was there last Friday I saw Haddon's book and grabbed it. I'd have to say, it's certainly a lot better than the bad reviews it got (and than the one on Amazon - it sounds like the reviewer has some bizarre ideas on poetry in general). On the other hand, it doesn't really live up to the most positive reviews, or to the synopsis, that says:
"That Mark Haddon's first book after 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time' was a poetry collection perhaps came as a surprise to his legions of fans; that it is a collection of such virtuosity and range did not. The gifts so admired in Haddon's prose are in strong evidence here too - the humanity of his voices, the dark humour and the uncanny ventriloquism - but Haddon is also a writer of considerable seriousness, lyric power and surreal invention, and "The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the Village Under the Sea" combines bittersweet love-lyrics, lucid and bold new versions of Horace, comic set-pieces, lullabies, wry postmodern shenanigans (including a note from the official board of censors on '18' certificate poetry), and an entire John Buchan novel condensed to five pages. Consolidating Haddon's reputation as one of our most powerful myth-weavers and spell-makers, 'The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the Village Under the Sea' also confirms him as one of the most outrageous and freewheeling imaginations at work in contemporary literature."
I presume that was taken from the blurb (I haven't got the book to hand at the moment), and it does rather overdo it, and therein lies the problem, I think. I'm sure the more outrageous claims just put reviewers backs up, and do the poet no favours. For example, "such virtuosity and range" - really? Honestly? "Surreal invention" - the surrealism is rather clumsily done, I thought, and easily the worst thing about the collection. "Uncanny ventriloquism" - no, I can't go for that (see earlier comments on the novel). And finally, "one of our most powerful myth-weavers and spell-makers" and "one of the most outrageous and freewheeling imaginations at work in contemporary literature." Oh come on! In what way outrageous? And where are these myths, exactly?
This isn't intended as an anti-Haddon diatribe. The same could apply to any number of recent poetry collections - I understand the need to market them, but surely making wildly overblown claims just turns the book-buying public off in the long run? I've enjoyed the collection on the whole, but very much despite the extravagant claims made for it.
Understatement is, we're always told, very much the order of the day in contemporary poetry. Perhaps reviewers should use a little now and then.

Beaten to the punch

A lot of my poems take an awfully long time to write. They hang around in notebooks and computer files, half-finished, sometimes barely started, waiting for that original scrap of inspiration to be hammered into shape. Sometimes, it never happens, but more often than not something gets finished, eventually.
One such piece had been sitting on my hard drive for a good two years. It didn't work as it stood, but there was something there, I thought, that might be worth persevering with. Then, a few weeks back, I came across a poem by the Irish poet Eavan Boland, which was startlingly similar in theme and structure to my unfinished poem. Hers used Atlantis in its central metaphor, mine used Lyonnesse, but the idea was the same. We'd probably arrived at the idea from very different directions, but it's hardly the most remarkable coincidence in the world.
Anyway, now I had a problem. Unsurprisingly, her poem was (i) much better; as well as being (ii) finished; and (iii) published. Probably I should just have forgotten about it, but over the weekend I pulled my poem apart, reassembled it in various different forms, and ended up with something very different from what I started with, but which I'm actually pretty happy with. It's still not as good as Eavan Boland's, of course, but I think it's now sufficiently different to survive. I might send it out somewhere eventually.
The moral? Well, there isn't one, really, except to say that sometimes being forced to consider radically changing a poem does you a huge favour.
It was a good weekend. Yesterday, I went to one of my regular birding haunts (I won't say where, because I was reminded earlier that there are people out there for whom raptors are Public Enemy No1) looking for a reported Black-necked Grebe, and with the intention of taking my first very tentative steps into the world of digiscoping (taking pictures through a telescope, using a compact camera). As I arrived, a juvenile Peregrine was overhead, and by the time I'd parked, another (an adult, this time) was perched on the tree that they always use, with its bright yellow talons very visible through the scope. I went off walking, in search of the Grebe (with no luck), and as I returned to the car, I could see what looked like a second Peregrine on the tree. I got the scope on it, and it was. A female, judging by the size. Then, as I looked harder, I realised that a third Peregrine was there, facing away from me. I looked up to give my eyes a break, and there was a juvenile powering over the water, putting the Tufted Ducks and Black-headed Gulls to flight by his mere presence. Four Peregrines - at times I think I'm in danger of getting blase about them, so easy are they to see locally, but this was something else. I did little more than mess about with the new camera, but trial and error is all part of the process.
Finally, lots of good stuff on Stride. I saw Eleanor Rees' book in Borders on Saturday, but was a bit put off by its price, so I'm with Rupert Loydell on Salt's hardback thin volumes. I'll wait for it in paperback. I also saw Luke Kennard's collection, and would have bought it. In fact, I got as far as waiting in the queue, then realised that I'd left my wallet in my other coat. I don't suppose they'd have accepted 87p and half a tube of Polos, so I sheepishly snuck it back onto the shelf, and made my exit. I'll go back for it this week.

Taking monstrous liberties

I'm indebted to The Library Princess for pointing me in the direction of
Got Medieval. As someone who has always thought that history gets REALLY interesting just about when the Romans are packing up to leave, and loses some of its lustre again when the Renaissance comes along (we're talking in relative terms here), it's essential reading.
I'm slightly alarmed to see what's in store in the forthcoming film version of Beowulf (go to the July 17 entry), not to mention disappointed in Neil Gaiman. I don't have high hopes for it, but Hollywood has mangled plenty of other classics of world literature beyond recognition, so why should this be any different?
On the other hand (you knew that was coming, didn't you?), perhaps it will spark an interest in the original in a few people, so who am I to complain? I'm not ashamed to admit that my own interest in early medieval history was kindled entirely by reading the Lord of the Rings. Especially by the Riders of Rohan, with their Anglo-Saxons-on-horseback culture.
Speaking of which, I'm sure I read an article in a Sunday paper a few years back, saying that a translation of Beowulf by Tolkien had been found. It would certainly be a must-buy, given that Tolkien's 1936 lecture on the poem, The Monsters and the Critics, completely revolutionised understanding of it. But I've heard nothing since reading the piece - did I imagine it?

Shakespeare: Who wrote what?

Every few years this sort of story comes along. I'm not sure what to make of it, really. I love a good conspiracy theory, and I can see that there are some reasons for thinking that the authorship of Shakespeare's plays was down to someone else, or several other people. I'm not sure, though, that the reasons offered here are that convincing.
Derek Jacobi's comment that he doesn't think anyone could do it all on his own seems a bit odd - surely you could, and would, say the same about any genius, in any field? That's what sets them apart, isn't it?
His later comment, where he names De Vere the likely author because his life and experiences more closely match the plays, worries me even more. After all, no one's experience can match the plays that closely - they're just too varied and multi-layered for that. It seems to me to downplay the importance of imagination, and there's a hint of snobbery too. It must have been an aristocrat, because no pleb could possibly have managed it. Hmmm. I'm not persuaded.

Workshop responses

I've just come across the responses to that WS Graham themed Guardian poetry workshop. On first reading, I think I liked Eleanor Livingstone's poem best. I'm biased, admittedly, because she's a fellow HappenStancer and we launched our chapbooks at the same reading, but I'd agree with what Matthew Sweeney says - it's a surprising poem, and that's always a good thing.

"You don't have to be an ornithologist (to draw absurd conclusions to suit your prejudices)

It’s not often I’m moved to write to a newspaper, but this particular piece of ill-informed drivel did the trick. At a time when several of the broadsheets are jumping on the ‘let’s control raptors’ bandwagon (The Times had this piece*, and The Telegraph this – there’s loads to argue with in both, but they do at least make passing reference to one or two facts), Richard Ingrams and The Independent take things to a quite spectacular level of ignorance, prejudice and downright malevolence.
Where to start? Maybe with the Red Kites flying “menacingly” over his house. Menacing who, exactly? Does he suppose they’re about to swoop down and carry off young children, or the family pets? They take little live prey as it is, most of it no bigger than a rat.
What about the growing numbers of “larger birds”? By this Ingrams seems to mean raptors, although of course there are plenty of larger birds that are no such thing. If he’s really interested – and of course he’s not – there are plenty of figures available for larger birds, and if he took the trouble to read them he’d find that a lot of them are also struggling. Notable among them is the Hen Harrier, under threat precisely because it is still persecuted by shooting interests.
Connected with that, there’s the fact that the rapid increases in the number of Buzzards in particular, plus some other species of bird of prey, is entirely down to their populations having reached such dangerously low levels not so long ago. And the reason for that? Well, myxamatosis played a part where Buzzards are concerned, but again, systematic persecution by gamekeepers was the main cause.
As for the decline of small birds being down to the increased number of raptors – bullshit. The two we’ve been talking about, Buzzards and Red Kites, take very few birds. In the case of those British raptors who do – Sparrowhawk, Goshawk, Hobby, Merlin and Peregrine – many of their preferred prey species (Blue Tit, Great Tit, Blackbird, Collared Dove, Woodpigeon, to name but a few) are thriving. Ingrams is right to note that certain small birds have declined considerably, but of course it doesn’t suit his purpose to mention that others are doing very well.
The paragraph beginning “You don’t have to be an ornithologist…” is quite staggering in its stupidity. Perhaps you don’t need to be, but a basic grasp of a few facts would be a help. He seems to think, from what he says, that Sparrowhawks do nothing but catch sparrows, when in fact they take a whole wide range of prey. But they’re a native species too (as are all the raptors we’re talking about), so those losses are factored into nature’s equations. Predators do NOT wipe out their prey species, then wonder where the next meal is coming from.
Finally, there’s his little dig at the RSPB. Where exactly did he find out about the declines in small birds? From the RSPB, of course, and the BTO, and all the other organisations genuinely concerned with conservation. Certainly not from his grouse moor-owning, old school tie chums, anyway.
Perhaps the most disturbing thing about the whole piece is what it doesn’t mention. In the whole, long, sad list of bird and animal species that have disappeared into extinction, there isn’t one that was killed off by being preyed on by another native species. If, as Ingrams suggests, raptor numbers grow too large, then populations will experience a levelling off as they find their appropriate level. In the case of Buzzards, for example, that depends on Rabbit numbers. In the case of Red Kites, largely on the availability of roadkill and other carrion. All assuming, of course, that shotgun or poison-wielding types don’t take a hand.
Because there is a common factor in that list of extinctions. Mankind. Our interference with natural habitats and lifestyles is what causes extinction, and that’s exactly what’s happening with those birds now in serious decline, including the House Sparrow and a lot of farmland species. Intensive farming, plus the disappearance of a lot of green space in urban areas (for parking, or patios) is the culprit, not Sparrowhawks or corvids or cats or any of the other reasons suggested by the head-in-the-sand brigade. Lots of farmers ARE making an effort, with and without Government and EU help, and it’s heartening that declines can be reversed relatively quickly, but only if they’re spotted and acted upon in time. And there are always those for whom greed comes first.
There’s one consolation in all this, and that’s that Ingrams’ droolings will only have been read by a tiny percentage of the population anyway, having been published in a paper that sells under 250,000 copies daily, most of them in London and the Home Counties (it's given up even pretending it knows the rest of the country exists). That’s under a quarter of the number of people who pay their RSPB subs each month.
Rant over.
* Once you know that Magnus Linklater owns a grouse moor, it rather colours your view of his objectivity.

New broom

There's a new Poetry Editor at Writers' Forum. Sarah Willans, one of the co-founders of Word Doctors (highly recommended) has taken over the role and is keen to see as many good poets as possible submitting to the magazine's monthly competition. And the real prize, of course, is exposure in a widely distributed and read magazine (it's easily available in WH Smith, for example).
When I started trying to write seriously, the mag was invaluable for giving pointers towards all sorts of magazines, competitions, workshops, courses and festivals, and under Sarah's stewardship, I'm sure the poetry workshop will be essential reading.

So Here We Are 5

Click here to hear So Here We Are 5, the latest in Tears in the Fence editor David Caddy's Poetic Letters From England. The stuff about Bill Griffiths caught my eye on first reading, but as always, there's loads of good stuff there to follow up on.

Is Dylan poetry?

Ah, the old "is Dylan really poetry" chestnut again. I'm not sure what to make of Andrew Motion's comment. Surely all song lyrics depend for their effect on the music, otherwise the songwriter would just call them poems in the first place?
On the other hand, he raises two other interesting points. One is whether or not Dylan is considered cool or relevant enough by today's schoolkids to encourage them to read poetry. My suspicion is that for most, he isn't. The second is the whole question of getting kids into poetry by a 'backdoor' route. It makes me a little uneasy, and I find myself thinking that wouldn't it just be better to expose them to plenty of good poetry, well taught. Even when I was at school (mid-80s), the amount of poetry covered in the curriculum seemed to be very small. At O Level, we did a few World War One poems (Owen and Sassoon), a few Ted Hughes poems (I remember Wind being one of them, and the one that starts "The swallow of summer..."), and that was pretty much it. We did do a Shakespeare play, and Under Milk Wood, but very little actual poetry, and I don't ever remember being particularly inspired by it. A Level was better (and very well taught) - Prufrock and Portrait of a Lady by Eliot, Heaney's Selected Poems, and The Whitsun Weddings, but I think it's fair to assume that anyone who's taking English A Level already has some degree of interest in poetry, and literature in general.
On the other hand, I suppose it can't do any harm!
But back to whether lyrics stand as poetry. My own feeling is that they very rarely do, no matter how good they are as lyrics. I love Richard Thompson's songs, for example, but even though I often think about individual lines that they would work in a poem, I generally think that the overall effect depends entirely on the interplay of words, music, voice and instrumentation.
On Radio Five this morning, discussing this story, their objection was that Dylan's songs depended very much on his delivery of them. I'm not sure that's valid, because there are plenty of good cover versions of his songs. I used to have a double album of them, some quite obscure. Two favourites were Farewell Angelina, by New Riders of the Purple Sage (a Grateful Dead offshoot), and Mama You Been On My Mind, by Rod Stewart (in his early days, of course). And of course, there was Jason and the Scorchers' fabulous blast through Absolutely Sweet Marie, sounding a bit like The Ramones would have done had they grown up in Appalachia. Anyone got any favourite Dylan covers?

Two ticks

I’m not what you’d call a twitcher, the sort of birder who dashes off to Shetland at the drop of a hat to see some rare vagrant, but neither am I an expert enough patch birdwatcher to be able to get by without the help of the various local birding websites and BirdGuides.
I check them regularly, and occasionally, if they list something interesting on my ‘beat’, I’ll go and have a look for it. It’s pretty much the only way you can work if you haven’t got time to get around all your local sites on a very regular basis.
Anyway, yesterday there were a few Leicestershire mentions on the websites, so I did a few stops on the way from work to a meeting in Nottingham. First was Eyebrook Reservoir, to have a look for the Sandwich Terns and Curlew Sandpipers reported there earlier. Sadly a Peregrine had spooked the terns, and there was no sign of the Sandpipers, even at the spot where I’ve seen them in previous years.
So it was on to Wanlip Meadows, just on the corner of my patch, to look for a juvenile Spotted Redshank. Trouble is, the path into the Meadows has been closed for weeks while sewage works take place. No problem, I thought. Just across the river is Watermead Country Park, with a bird hide that overlooks the Meadows. I parked, walked round there, and found the hide locked up. Hmm. Not impressed. Early morning and late evening are often the best times to watch birds, especially at a site like this where many of the birds disperse elsewhere during the day, returning later to roost. This was only 6.30pm. I know vandalism can be a problem, but this is a showpiece site, well run and patrolled, and well used by the public too.
Fortunately, the ramp up to the hide offered something of a vantage point. OK, so it was looking towards the setting sun, and it only looked over a fairly narrow section of the Meadows, but it was better than nothing. I got the scope set up and started looking. Loads of Black-headed Gulls (always entertaining to see them bickering), and nearly as many Lapwings. No other waders, though, no matter how many times I scanned back and forth.
It always happens, though. I decided to have one last sweep, then move on. A Green Sandpiper moved into view, and called twice. Then, from the same direction, came the Spotted Redshank. In terms of plumage there are probably a few things you could confuse one with, but their behaviour gives them away. This one was a textbook example, wading deep in the pool, occasionally up-ending, and all the time moving with a restless, almost frantic energy. It was a bit too backlit for me to be able to make out the barred markings at their best, but with a bit of patience it was possible to get most of the way there.
Finally, on to Swithland Reservoir, to look for a juvenile Little Gull. I was a bit daunted, and the words “needle” and “haystack” came to mind when I got down to the dam and saw a huge gathering of gulls in front of me. Mainly Black-headeds, but with some of the larger species too. But Swithland Res is one of my favourite places to be on a lovely still evening, birds or no birds. Nothing for it but to set up the scope and start scanning.
And it happened again. Just at the point when I had decided to give up, it flickered into view, fluttering about like a tern, and descending to delicately pick insects from off or just above the water. It even came fairly close at times, and I was able to watch it for a good 10 minutes before the meeting loomed large and I had to leave.
It all takes the patch list to 130 for the year, but it honestly is the looking that matters. Tonight, if the weather holds, I'm off to Sence Valley Forest Park to search for some Whinchats.

Sphinx update

Here are the latest reviews to go with issue 7 of Sphinx, HappenStance's journal devoted to reviewing chapbook poetry. I thoroughly enjoyed the books I got this issue - each of them very strong, but in quite different ways.

New releases

Lots of new reviews over at Stride - the Eleanor Rees collection sounds intriguing (I've heard lots of good things about it from other sources too), and I enjoyed Paul McLoughlin's last pamphlet a lot, so I'll have a look out for his book too.

Slow burner

Sunday nights are pretty much taken care of until the end of October, because the final series of The Sopranos (*** don't follow this link if you don't want to see spoilers - I cut and pasted from it with my eyes shut ***) started last night on E4. It was something of a scene-setter, so you get the distinct feeling that all hell will let loose in the remaining episodes.
Two things about this programme endlessly fascinate me. One is the moral aspect - you feel a bit strange, to say the least, about identifying with or rooting for such a collection of psychopaths, but you keep going in the belief that all will get their just desserts in the end, one way or the other. Maybe from the law, maybe from a rival mob, maybe from their tortured consciences (yes, most of the characters have them). It gives it all the feel of a real tragedy, because even when characters try to break out of the cycle of violence, they slip back in, as Tony's cousin, played by Steve Buscemi, did a couple of series back. Or like last night, when nice guy (we're talking in relative terms here) Bobby found himself having to make his first hit to ingratiate himself with Tony again.
Secondly, there's the fact that this is a series that British TV just couldn't make. I don't mean in terms of the production values, because that probably goes without saying. I mean that it trusts the viewer to remember little plot twists or revelations from years ago, rather than signposting everything as drama series over here too often do. The characters, too, are consistent - there's none of that thing where people undergo a personality change overnight just to serve a new plot development. We CAN do it over here, most notably with period dramas, but we do so too rarely.
On a Sopranos theme, it was interesting to see during yesterday's Villa vs Chelsea game that Jose Mourinho's hair increasingly resembles that of Paulie Walnuts, Tony Soprano's unhinged henchman. Which Chelsea player is going to go for the Silvio Dante look, I wonder?

Well-read?

I’ve been thinking over the last few days about the way I read poetry.
Increasingly, I find I’ve got several volumes on the go at once. At the moment, for instance, there’s that Mark Ford book I mentioned, and a Philip Gross collection (I.D.) I bought on a secondhand stall a few weeks back. Then there’s Helen MacDonald’s Shaler's Fish, and finally I’m methodically working my way through Lee Harwood’s Collected Poems (again – I enjoyed it so much the first time), plus Tomas Transtromer’s The Great Enigma.
When I buy a book of poetry, I generally have a flick through first, reading a handful of poems in no particular order. Then, sometimes quite a while later, I’ll read it cover to cover.
Thing is, though, I tend to keep the books in different places (one in my work-bag, for lunch hours, one beside the bed, and so on), and so I read them in different ways. After all, however good an idea it is to read a poem out loud, you can’t do that on a bus or train, or in the canteen.
Now the Helen MacDonald book is of a type that sometimes gets described as difficult, although I’d use a quite different word – rich. Rich as in food. To take the analogy further, it’s not something you want to take a bite out of just before bed, because it starts your brain roving off in all sorts of directions at once, and generally wakes up your senses. So I’ve been reading it slowly, a poem a day, out loud, with plenty of time afterwards to take it in. It’s worth it.
My own feeling is that there’s room for all sorts of poetry, from the easily digested type (and I don’t mean that it has less depth, or value) to the more acquired tastes. It does strike me, though, that the way I read probably doesn’t do either justice. After all, having decided that a book is ‘accessible’ (either because of the poet’s reputation, or because of that initial flick-through), I take rather less time, and possibly care, over it. Which, of course, is likely to confirm the prejudice that its pleasures are immediate. And I guess the same could happen the other way around.
In the end, I suppose, I’d rather be reading lots of poetry, some of it less carefully than I might (and of course, you can always go back to it if you feel there’s something you missed), than very small amounts, very closely.
I could be convinced otherwise, though...

View from the Bridge

I’m a member of the management committee of the South Notts Cricket League, and last Wednesday four of us were very kindly invited to attend a day’s cricket at Trent Bridge as guests of the president of Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club. It was, as expected, a lovely day out. The sun shone, the food and wine were excellent, and there was plenty of chance to talk cricket and even to chat to one or two of the players.
It was also the last chance to see the lovely old ground in its present form. Today, one of the stands on the Trent Bridge Inn side of the ground will be demolished, with a new stand to be in place by the start of next season. Hopefully it won’t affect the character of what is an intimate and friendly venue too much, and the signs are good. The Radcliffe Road Cricket Centre and the Fox Road Stand, both recent developments, have enhanced what was already a great place to watch cricket.
My only disappointment on the day was that Derek Randall is not among the ex-players still involved with the club. My own first memory of Trent Bridge is watching the test match vs Australia there on the TV in 1977, and seeing the newly-recalled Geoff Boycott run out local hero Randall for 0. The ground went silent, and to be fair to Geoff, he made up for things slightly by having the decency to look horrified by what he had done, and by scoring a century.
Randall was a true character, a sometimes brilliant batsman best remembered for his 174 in 1977’s Centenary Test, and for an even more valuable Ashes-winning 150 at Sydney in 1978-79. Even more, though, he was known for his incredible fielding, buzzing about at high speed to terrify batsmen into running themselves out, and occasionally taking catches with hands behind his back, or celebrating by turning cartwheels. It’s a cliché, but they don’t make them like that any more.

Should have known better

There’s a postscript to what I was saying about Norfolk. When I was two years old, we (me, my parents and my older sister) went to Sheringham for a two-week caravan holiday. The weather was exactly as it was last week (only with fog and mist as well as rain and wind), so much so that (and I’m going on my mum’s word here, as I remember none of it) by the end of the first week, we gave up and went home to dry out, to find that the rest of the country was experiencing a heatwave. After three days, my parents decided they might as well make the most of what little time was left, and drove back over to Norfolk. They reached Hunstanton and all was well (we splashed around on the beach there), but by the time they neared Sheringham, the grey mist descended again, and stayed in place all week.
I think it put my parents off Norfolk for life, but fortunately it doesn’t seem to have imprinted itself on my subconscious. In any weather, it’s a great corner of the world.

Global warming?!

On Thursday, I took advantage of a day off to go over to Norfolk for some birdwatching. The skies as I left home were flawless blue, and it was warm and still.
The moment I got past King's Lynn, though, it was like being in a different time zone. Grey clouds stretched into the distance, there was a howling gale blowing, it was cold, and it didn't stop raining all day.
The joy of Norfolk, though, is that all those things don't really matter. The weather did make RSPB Titchwell appear disturbingly like it did when I was last there, in January, but the faces had changed. Autumn migration is just starting to happen in earnest, and there were plenty of waders about. Ruffs, sadly without their spectacular breeding plumage, loads of Avocets and Oystercatchers, the odd Curlew, and a small flock of Golden Plovers. The latter showed an astonishing array of appearances, from one bird still in full breeding plumage, through all the intermediate stages to the rather dull winter look I'm used to seeing at home.
Elsewhere, there was a distant Marsh Harrier and a good-sized flock of Black-tailed Godwits on Cley Marshes, and I spent my usual 20 minutes rummaging through the secondhand poetry volumes in a little shop in Wells. I found Mark Ford's Soft Sift for £2 - I've never read anything by him before, so I'm looking forward to it.

My test best

For some reason, I just couldn't get to sleep last night, despite being dog tired. I'd like to be able to say it was because my brain had been working overtime on some great new poem and just refused to stop composing.
I'd be lying, though. There was no particular reason and, when I tried to nod off by picking my All-Time World Cricket XI (to play an intergalactic outfit), I got so caught up in it that it just made me more wide awake. Usually it's a foolproof method, and my brain shuts down while I'm pondering that last batting spot, but this time I got down to the final bowling place and had a heated debate with myself over whether a second spinner was needed, and if so, who?
I set myself strict criteria with these selection challenges. I can only pick people I've actually seen play, which rules out anyone before about 1977. I have to pick individuals in isolation (ie. Desmond Haynes missed out because, although he formed a great partnership with Gordon Greenidge, I have to assume he might be playing alongside someone else). I assume that each individual is at the peak of their powers. I assume the pitch is a perfect test wicket, offering batsmen and all types of bowlers some help. Finally, I assume that this isn't just about entertainment (so sadly, no room for my hero, wine-quaffing, stunt-flying David Gower, or the likes of Aravinda DeSilva), but that the fate of the world is at stake. Of course, that last one means I also assume the existence of a race of genocidal, planet-grabbing aliens who, nevertheless, are quite prepared to stick to their word and back off if they happen to lose a five-day cricket match.
So, who made it? Well, here we go.
1. Gordon Greenidge
2. Sunil Gavaskar
3. Viv Richards
4. Sachin Tendulkar
5. Allan Border (C)
6. Ian Botham
7. Ian Healy (WK)
8. Malcolm Marshall
9. Shane Warne
10. Dennis Lillee
11. I finally fell asleep at this point, after deciding to cheat and pick a spinner and a pace bowler, and leave one out on the day of the match depending on the conditions. I then had a strange dream in which I met Sir Richard Hadlee, who was quite miffed to have missed the cut, but was calmed down by Joel Garner.
In the light of day, I've decided that last spot will go to Anil Kumble and Curtley Ambrose. I reckon the world is safe in the hands of these 12, but I'm prepared to justify it. Next time insomnia strikes, I'll write a little explanation of the selections. In the meantime, tell me I'm wrong, and why...

Back from Birdfair

Well, I wasn't swallowed up by the mud in the car-park, but yesterday's almost non-stop torrential rain (broken only by half an hour of very hot sunshine) added a bit of a damp squib to what had been a very enjoyable few days at Birdfair. Friday was, apparently, the busiest day there ever, and it felt like it. The Bird Watching stand was a constant hive of activity, and I only managed to slip away a couple of times to the Optics marquees (we're talking bins and scopes here, not measures of spirits). There was a quick glass of champers at Leica's launch of their new scope, fronted of course by Bill Oddie (that's about all the name-dropping you can do in birding circles), but it was good to meet readers and contributors face to face and have the chance to talk with them at length.
I did find myself getting struck by the digiscoping bug too - there are some very fine and very cheap cameras around, so I think my credit card will take a bit of stick later in the week, while I'm over in Norfolk.
Finally, you might want to take a look at this review of Mark Cocker's Crow Country, which I mentioned a while back. I like the point being made, and it made me think a bit about exactly where my own bird obsession comes from.

Strange songs

Over at the always entertaining Fretmarks, there's this. I remember hearing about the idea on Radio Four months ago, and it's no less odd now that it's actually come to fruition. But I have to say, I'd love to see it, and I'm trying to work out a way of slipping up to Gateshead next month to have a look.

Birdfair 2007

I'll be spending the next three days on the boggy banks of Rutland Water, at this year's Birdfair. They promise that the site has dried out now, but we're having a fair few torrential downpours again this week, so I suspect it could all end up as a mudbath. It's work, in theory, but I'd be going anyway, so it's the kind of work I like.
It's not always easy to actually do any birdwatching while you're there, because of course the hides are full and you can't drag yourself away from all the exhibitions and stands, but it's worth trying. Last year, in the 15 minutes I managed just before having to dash back to my old job, me and a birder from Yorkshire saw a superb range of waders turn up on the small muddy beach we were watching. Greenshank, Redshank, Spotted Redshank, Ringed Plover, Little Ringed Plover, Green Sandpiper, Common Sandpiper and Ruff were all visible, to remind us what it's all about.
If anyone reading this is going, I'll be on the Bird Watching stand all three days - pop over and say hello.

Silliman's Blog

I rarely find myself agreeing unreservedly with Ron Silliman, although his blog is both essential reading and dangerously addictive for the office-hours browser (still, that's what work is for, right?). This, though (the August 13 post), is excellent. A better man than me could probably argue with it in parts, but it seems to me to make a good case both for more left-field poetry and for a plurality of poetries. Probably my only only real argument would be that some poets can function at several or even all of the levels he mentions.

Am I missing something?

Issue 5 of Anon arrived in the post yesterday. I didn’t get home until 10.30, so I only had a very brief look at it before bed, but it’s a magazine I like a lot.
There’s a good variety of poems, interesting articles, and it’s very well produced, in a compact but solid format that slips neatly into the inside pocket of a jacket without having to worry about it getting bent out of shape.
On the subscription renewal form (I’ll definitely be renewing), there are two quotes, taken from an article in Issue 2 which put forward the pros and cons of an anonymous submissions process, which is what sets Anon apart from most if not all other poetry mags.
The bit that baffles me, as it did when I first read it, is Kathleen Jamie's assertion that such a system is “a nasty individualistic Thatcherite competition”. I just can’t understand why introducing anonymity into the process suddenly makes it nastier, and more Thatcherite (and God knows that’s a dirty word where I’m concerned). The process is no more or less competitive, it’s just that it’s being judged on different (and it’s up to you to judge whether they’re better) criteria. I presume Kathleen Jamie has herself submitted to magazines in the past, and to publishers, and in doing so she was, however much she might not like it, effectively in competition with other writers (or perhaps more accurately, her work was in competition with other writers’ work).
I’m undecided on the whole anonymity concept for different reasons. I think the vast majority of editors are far too dedicated and conscientious in their work to let personal considerations creep in, but on the other hand, isn’t there room for both systems, just as there’s room for different kinds of poetry? One anonymous submissions mag just provides a bit of variety. Where's the harm in that?
PS. I've been reading Anon editor Mike Stocks' excellent novel White Man Falling recently. I'll post a proper review soon, but I can recommend it.

In search of Roger Godberd

I've always been a bit obsessed with the whole Robin Hood legend. I've always lapped up anything, fact or fiction, relating to it (not keen on the BBC series, mind you), and I've gradually drawn a few, wholly unoriginal conclusions about it, which are that he's a composite character, albeit heavily based on real historical figures (maybe as many as three, maybe just the one).
Until only a few years ago, though, I had no idea that one candidate for the 'real Robin Hood' was a man called Roger Godberd, who came from Swannington, the next village to where I live, and who led a band of outlaws in Charnwood and Sherwood Forests in the years that followed the bloody suppression of the supporters of Simon De Montfort*. Since I found this out, I've looked everywhere for information on this man, with very little luck. All there is seems to be summed up on a few Robin Hood websites, despite there being absolutely no doubt that he did exist and was a considerable thorn in the side of the authorities. The thing is, there's no trace of him around Swannington, either. There are roads named after a giant called John Talbot, and little local legends about the Red Comyn, one of the Scottish noblemen who once owned Whitwick Castle, but nothing on Roger. Fair enough, 700-plus years are enough to have erased all traces even of a well-known local figure, but you could say the same about lots of folk heroes. When I lived in Bourne, South Lincolnshire, for example, which was probably the home of Hereward the Wake, every second business seemed to use his name. The same is true of Nottingham and Robin Hood, however much South Yorkshire might claim (with justification) that it is the real home of the story.
My search hasn't just been down to historical curiosity. A while ago, I started writing some poems about Godberd. Not really straightforward monologues in his voice, or pieces of historical narrative, but little scraps and fragments of writing, full of anachronisms and the like. It might be I never finish the sequence, and it's even more likely that no one else will ever want to read it, but it's fun, and I want to finish it. However much I want to fill in the gaps by letting my imagination run riot, though, I also need more facts, if they exist, to build the whole thing around. So, if by some slim chance you stumble across this page and happen to have a fund of knowledge about Roger Godberd, get in touch. I can't promise to make it worth your while, but what have you got to lose!
Anyway, here's what our old friend Michael Drayton made of the whole thing, in a little extract from Polyolbion, the masterpiece/folly that gives this blog its name.

*Leicestershire was firmly behind De Montfort - just days after his defeat and death, villagers at Peatling Magna, near Leicester, attempted to arrest some of the newly-empowered king's henchmen, claiming they were "going against the community of the realm". The only thing more remarkable than this highly advanced state of political consciousness among the the peasantry is the fact that they were merely imprisoned for a few months and fined, after a trial which, if not exactly fair, was certainly not a mere kangaroo court.

Nice surprise

The latest issue of Poetry Scotland was waiting for me when I got home last night. It's always a good read, packing an awful lot in for just £1 a time, and issue 51 contains poems by the likes of Les Murray, William Oxley and my fellow Happenstancers Rob Mackenzie and Gill McEvoy. To my surprise, it also contains two poems by me. I'd submitted them not so long ago, and wasn't particularly surprised to have received no reply yet, but clearly it went astray somewhere along the line. A good way to hear the news, anyway.
One of Rob's poems is called Lagavulin, and does justice to its illustrious name, which is not quite up there in my medal positions where single malts are concerned (they'd be 1. Laphroaig; 2. Talisker; 3. Highland Park) but is not far off.
But anyway, next time you save a fiver on your favourite single malt at Sainsbury's, use it to subscribe to Poetry Scotland, and get five packed issues for your £5.