It is more than a year ago that we locked down in Scotland, and it has been a year whose impact is too big to reduce to a comment. We have been brave, kind, patient, grieving, anxious, hopeful, disappointed. So many of us have lost so much. So many of us have had to do the year largely alone. Some of us realised that our lives had been like that for years, without anyone noticing. Some of us have realised that things could be different if there was good will enough. Most of us are tired. This is my poem for times like these.
Stand in the Light Stand in the light. Allow the wild things to creep out of the shadows. Welcome them all, the wet bedraggled things, the ones all spit and claws, the one who weeps and hangs its head, the one who stares, and says ‘Make me.’ Stand in the light. They are yours, washed and unwashed alike.
Stand in the light, and sing. Raise your voice as if there was no fear of darkness. Listen and you will hear other voices, other songs, rough and sweet and dauntless, blues and canto jondo, pibroch, nanha, tanakh. Stand in the light and sing. Their pain is yours. Allow it to hurt.
Stand in the light. Be still. Light is what we need. Let it glow, let it shine into the furthest dark to find the lost forgotten hopes and warm them to new life. Allow it to grow and touch the ruined homes and hearts and show us what’s to mend. Stand in the light. Be still. Become the light.
I will take the moment of silence at mid-day to think of you all – those I haven’t seen in so long, those I will never see again. But then – let’s come together and sing. Not necessarily literally – there’s a song that got into my head when I had my allotment, and I used to dig my potatoes to its rhythm:
All God’s children got a place in the choir. Some sing low and some sing higher, Some sing out loud on the telephone wire, Some just clap their hands Or paws, or anything they got.
Back in 2017 I wrote a piece called Speaking Beings, about the film, Paterson, in which I talked about the social, conversational nature of poetry. Since lockdown, this has been hard to achieve, except on-line, and I have clearly missed it. No readings, little writing, even less conversation, and very few submissions – most of which did not go well. I dug myself into a typical poetic ivory tower, and reflected on the inwardness of poetic existence.
Well, sometimes! Clearly, there were external things going on in my life as much as anyone else’s, but as a poet, I might just as well have been at the bottom of a well. Until last week, when two things happened.
The first was reading a couple of poems at a Zoom writers’ group event. It was lovely to be doing it again, but it showed me how big a part of the writing process reading aloud and getting the feedback is. I will never be a performance poet, but the sound and flow of what I write is really important to me, and you don’t get how it works until you have read it aloud and someone has listened. You also don’t realise, until you introduce a poem, how much is implied, rather than stated, or how much context it needs, and that’s a really important part of my reviewing process.
The second was sending my nearly-finished manuscript to two friends to read it for me. Both are working hard at their own projects just now, so this was fairly cheeky, but they are people whose judgement I value enormously, and it was the best thing I could have done. The level of engagement was beyond the missed commas (many of those) and clumsy expressions (also more than I would have liked), but criticism that made me ask myself why I had written these poems, what I was trying to achieve, and connect technique with meaning, as well as effect. It was a wonderful experience, I can’t recommend it too highly!
Poetry as dialogue has always seemed to me important as a way of being in the world, but it is also an important part of the composition process. If you are the sort of poet who doesn’t read other poets for fear of being influenced, or if you go from amassing a heap of poems to trying to get a book out (especially if you want to self-publish), your work is almost inevitably half-finished, and you are selling yourself short.
So this blog post goes out as a special thankyou to Rothbury Writers Group, Helen Boden, and John Bolland, for getting me out of the well, and beyond them, to all the writers groups, events organisers, festivals, competitions and magazine editors who have been part of my life as a writer. You make my work what it is.
Well, almost gone. But although it had its tough moments, it wasn’t all bad. So I would like to thank 2020 for
StAnza which was lovely – already changed and foreshadowing what was to come, it was full of friendships and inspiration that kept me going for all those months
social media. I haven’t seen any of my closest friends since March, but thanks to the dreaded social media, I know I have a hard core of really wonderful people who are as close as if they were in the next room. Also a wider spectrum of people who engage, intrigue, inspire and delight me. And next year, I’m going to fix it so that they will be in the next room!
The quiet and isolation which forced many of us to confront a few demons. Not pleasant, but useful. I discovered how much better things get if you actually take the time with them, also the difference between the strength of following your intuition and the lunacy of stubbornly demanding your own way.
the key workers who got us through the worst times. Obviously the NHS, the shopworkers; the teachers who learned a whole new skillset overnight, so that teaching could go on; the planners and administrators who backed up the lockdowns with support schemes and guidance (the A-team of Nicola Sturgeon, Jeanne Freeman and Jason Leitch who put a human face on it, and created a culture of love, kindness and solidarity rather than restrictions and compliance get a special mention here). But also the comedians like Janey Godley who put a very down to earth and disrespectful spin on it, and reached many who wouldn’t have responded to the voices of the establishment, the musicians and poets and events organisers who put everything on line so that even more people could access events. I hope we don’t lose this when face to face gigs begin to happen again.
The sense of humour of the people who mocked and mitigated the lockdowns when everything was at its worst
the kindness of people who set up small scale community support networks via whatsapp and community councils, and the ingenuity of people who set up new supply linesfor fresh food, delivery for catering outfits and ways to keep the small indie businesses afloat.
the indomitable and ingenious fundraising for foodbanks, the NHS, and for refugees who have been shamefully neglected and mistreated by this excuse for a government
the fabulous summer weather, which meant that we could walk and meet outside when we couldn’t visit each other.
books, and the quiet to read and absorb them
political protest, which didn’t stop for pandemics – the Black Lives Matter one is foremost in my mind, and I think that significant first steps have been taken to change not just structures, but mindsets. I have thought this before, and been disappointed, but we can only build on the foundations we have. Also the willingness people now show to engage with issues such as race, gender, equality, the rule of law, the constitution. A country is only as strong and stable as its citizens make it, and we are seeing a lot less willingness to leave it to the politicians, which can only be a good thing.
the resilience and compassion of so many people who helped each other through bereavement, anxiety, illness, mental health crises, crushing responsibilities, job losses and all the other wreckage of the year. I never saw anyone reach out on social media without finding a safety net of support, prayer (of many different varieties) and good wishes.
There’s a lot to be grateful for, but frankly, the verdict on 2020 is ‘could do better’. Let’s hope 2021 does! I’ll leave you with a hopeful poem:
After the Dark Months
Spring comes steaming out of the ground with the smell of mud, gorse blossom, crushed grass and pond water.
Spring comes into the light, ironing out the folded leaf and bud, pumping colour into dim petal wings.
Spring comes singing in the morning, hatches eggs and frogspawn, and opens the wintered heart to a brightening dawn.
Christmas Gifts I was five, and on the naughty list, No doll for me then! Wouldn’t you think I ‘d stay out of trouble for that one day? Clearly not – perhaps next year. Meanwhile the decorations would be up, The crib and tree, and the room would smell Of tangerines and fir and the strange smoke Of my father’s once a year cigar.
I remember that stoic bedtime, but not the morning, the stocking with the sixpence in the toe, the orange at the heel, the crayons, magic painting books, the Ladybird Wise Robin. It’s only now I tell myself the wonder of the bundle on my bed – twin dolls, a boy and girl. I called them Bob and Jennifer, Made them go to school, bathed them, Cut Bob’s fingernails (they never grew back). It took me years to recognise Love had withheld one gift, given me two.
All my childhood Christmases merge into one, but this is one I think about sometimes. May this holiday, which looks so diminished, bring you all double what you hope for. May you know yourselves loved.
It isn’t going well, as it’s raining, but there’s a link to yesterday’s experience, and they’ll be trying again tomorrow. The neolithic chamber at New Grange is patterned on the constellation Cygnus, which was in a slightly different place in the sky then, and when I read this, I was inspired to write this poem, which appeared in Wherever We Live Now.
Lir’s Children No wonder they thought of swans in the fields and bogs of Donegal, and the wide skies of Meath, where birds from Iceland bring in the winter.
No wonder they thought of swans where the chambered stone at Bru na Boinne mirrors the starry bird, whose bright eye guides home the wandering sun in spring.
No wonder they thought of swans who travelled like songs and monks, lost lovers and warriors, between the cliffs and green coasts of Alba and Eire.
No wonder they thought of vision ‘let loose like a swan on a river’, the freedom of wide white wings, and the wisdom of sweet Irish.
I think of children exiled and caged in the narrow coffin of a swan’s breast, transient as tinkers and tattie howkers, their songs keeping them together.
And after it, the homecoming, Tara’s bare hearths and changed days, the thin sound of church bells, and the last liberation of holy water.
No visible sunrise here either, but the longest darkest night is behind us now – and after this weekend, what a long dark night it was. It seems more than ever grim that we can’t be together in real life, but there are ways of holding on to each other while we wait for the light to strengthen.
This is the desk on which I wrote my Masters dissertation more than thirty years ago. I had a friend with a word processor who typed it up for me – that’s how much things have changed. I had very poor typing skills and no computer skills at all, and honestly thought that computers would have no impact on my life in any way.
Anyway, this desk was bought with my very last salary as a teacher, and sat in a corner, bruised and battered and looking very neglected. During lockdown 2 I finally sanded and varnished it and ordered a new insert which my husband put in for me, because my hands are too shaky for knives as sharp as all that. It will never look new, or even like a cherished antique, but it looks as though I love it, and I do.
This second phase of level 4 has been very hard, but in the way that mending a broken leg is hard. Tough as it is, it is possible to see strength and flexibility returning, recovering lost joy in free movement. Through it I have had to come to a deeper understanding of what inspires me, what I’m able to do, and, crucially, what I’m not. I had spread myself very thin, tried to follow so many different enthusiasms and causes, and battled with doubt and despair more than I allowed myself to notice. But this paring down of life and opportunity made me rest (goodness, that’s hard!) and look at where my heart is, the work that gives me satisfaction and joy, and how to deepen it so that I do it as well and as thoroughly as it deserves.
But it reminded me of how much love and joy there is in my life, in my kitchen, my garden, the territory of rain, in the writing about place and poetry that delights me, the friends who strengthen me and the people who so kindly tell me they like what I do. I feel a bit like my desk, sanded down a bit, and refurbished – made new.
There will be new poetry next year – some of mine, and at least two new books by poets I’m excited to be working with, a fresh look for the newsletter (more of that later) and more reviews for the blog, and maybe a workshop or two. Plus territory pictures and herbs as usual, that isn’t stopping any time soon. I do hope you will join me!
And a grey damp chilly road it is too this morning. Heavy rain is forecast, and frost by the end of the week, so we went for a walk while we could. There were crows and magpies in the oystercatcher field and deer browsing in the field below the Craigs, so winter has definitely arrived. A skein of geese flew along the Ochils, looking like nothing more than a fast-moving wisp of cloud until the leaders caught the sun, then lifted and disappeared over the brow of the hill.
Gardening is over for the season, apart from the cabbages and kale in the greenhouse, and the sparrows are back in the hedges, squabbling for places on the birdfeeders. The kitchen is full of jam, pickles and mincemeat and I have made the Christmas puddings, though we still don’t know who will be here to eat them with us. The rainbows we decorated our windows with at the start of the first lockdown have gone, and we are replacing them with Advent lights and decorations – this winter will need all the sparkle it can get!
Lockdown has hit everyone hard, and we are all sick and weary of it, but finally there does appear to be hope on the horizon for the spring, and meanwhile, I have been setting seeds for next year, working on my next collection – not nearly as close to finishing as I thought – thinking about plans for this blog, and for re-engaging with poetry in real life as soon as it is at all possible. I have read some great poetry, and some very inspiring nature writing, and discovered a lot of resources for the next phase – the Nature Library, Emergence Magazine, and the Inkcap newsletter. When I was first online there was a site called Habitat which provided a roundup of all the environmental news – needless to state it soon got overwhelmed by the avalanche of information available, and the demands of keeping up to date with the technology. Journalist Sophie Yeo who runs Inkcap seems to have a much more sustainable model, and provides an excellent service!
And on the poetry front, Colin Bancroft spent his lockdown putting together the amazing resource the Poets Directory. This includes the online magazine 192, and soon, the small press Nine Pens. I’m quite glad to report that, after all this activity supporting other poets, Colin has a pamphlet out himself, published by Maytree Press.
I’m also very pleased to tell you that I will have a a weird little sea poem in the next edition of 192 – another way in which I am back on the road!
This is going to be a bit of a rant, so buckle up.
Rant the first.
I recently unfriended someone on Facebook for posting a snide cartoon mocking political correctness. I don’t do this often – usually I have a three strikes policy, bearing in mind that you can’t always judge tone and context from a single post that might just be there because it’s funny, and that people may have a back story that you need to understand before you wade in, with the assumption that they are simply being abusive. But there are limits.
You have to know that I am quite old. Though most of my memories are from the sixties, the culture I was brought up in was shaped by the austerities and nostalgia of the post war period. I was brought up to be ‘a lady’ – a concept which took a lot of bashing when I became a feminist. But being ‘a lady’ in a working class Liverpool council estate was never going to mean having the right accent, knowing which fork to use in a posh restaurant, or having the vapours if asked to tackle anything that looked like manual labour. The key principle that was dinned into us, at home, at school, in the school stories and the pages of Girl magazine, was that you respected the dignity of everyone you came into contact with, and you never said or did anything that made the people around you feel unwelcome or uncomfortable.
This did not mean you couldn’t complain or protest. My mother was a quiet, shy woman in general, but when she took on teachers, shops giving poor service, council workers or tradesmen who didn’t deliver, she was unstoppable. It didn’t mean you couldn’t speak plainly or bluntly if you needed to. It just meant that to us, good manners was not a polite fiction masking self-serving skullduggery or way to tell the lower orders they were uncivilised. It was a basic requirement of living harmoniously with other people. Using ‘political correctness’ in a derogative way means
a) a way to show someone else they are out of touch or
b) someone doesn’t care how uncomfortable other people are in the conversation.
It signals an intent to bully. I am too old for this. If you want to call it political correctness, go ahead. To me it’s just good manners.
Rant the second.
A plea for virtue signalling. I hear a lot about the normalisation of, for instance, terrorist attacks, politicians going on television lying to people (even when they know we know what the truth is, because they don’t care what we believe), corruption, attacks on the judiciary, abandonment of the rule of law, dependency on foodbanks, homelessness, manipulation of social media. And yet, talking about how people are campaigning to save refugees from unjust deportation, housing the homeless, saving the envoronment, feeding hungry children, protesting about oppression is ‘virtue signalling’. There is an implication that it isn’t a genuine conviction, a moment of compassion, an instinct for kindness and fairness and welcome, it’s just a narcissistic attempt to make other people look bad.
We absolutely need to normalise the good stuff. Marcus Rashford’s Twitter feed this morning is full of small businesses and community groups stepping up to feed the children the Westminster (but not the Welsh or the Scottish) Government has abandoned. When the outrageous charges for settlement certificates for EU citizens, my Twitter feed was full of Scottish people asking if we could crowdfund them. When the lockdown hit, all my social media was full of community groups reaching out to the lonely or the people shut out of work, or children worried by the weirdness of the world.
We need to see this. We need to remind ourselves about who we really are. We need to see that this country is not just the nest of vipers, divided between the arrogant entitled toffs, and the surly embittered plebs that the newspaper industry wants to show us. And we sure as hell need our government to see it. They do not represent us. They are not only lying to us, they are lying about us.
Rant over. Back to robins and poetry and some thoughts about interesting witch books next week!
And so today, you ask me What is your life about? Why are you? What do you mean? What is your function, what are you for? And I will have to tell you about the woodpecker drumming and the carpet of celandines below the old railway bridge, the wrens defending their gardens in a mad trill of music, the sourdough bubbling in the kitchen and the warm smell of soup, the logbooks stacked beside my chair, the firelight, a growing poem.
A springtime poem, but this is the mood for today. The world seems to be going to hell in a handcart, and there isn’t anything I can do about it, apart from this. I’m not making any great claim for it, but it isn’t exactly frivolous either. Love grounded in reality is where we need to start from. I’m sending love.
This book is the one I waited for most anxiously, having read Seán Hewitt’s debut pamphlet Lantern last year. It didn’t disappoint. Right from the opening poem, the quiet, but not at all understated Leaf, you have some idea what you are in for:
For woods are the form of grief grown from the earth. For they creak.
——
For even in the nighttime of life it is worth living, just to hold it
Tongues of Fire p. 1
This collection is all about grief, chiefly for the slow death of the poet’s father from cancer, but also the deaths of friends and contemporaries by suicide, and the loss of love. The book is heavy and heartfull with grief, but it is not a sad book. It studies darkness and night, but also light, air and water.
It is essentially a ‘moniage‘ book, a going out into nature to discover wisdom and meaning, and it is full of trees, birds and plants. The poems about wild garlic and St John’s Wort are among my favourites, and I wish I had come across the latter when I did the St John’s wort newsletter! But Oak Glossary
In oak, essential nouns include soil,
water and time – these are produced from their elements. Water is a high and gentle noise of clearest quality which results from branches dripping
Tongues of Fire p16
and I Sit and Eavesdrop the Trees show the poet entering deeply into the life of other living things, rather than discussing how they figure in our lives. As a gay man in a very Catholic environment, the poet must consciously go ‘outside’ to think about his relationships and sexual identity, and he discovers a place full of secrets, danger and death, but also strength, wisdom and love.
The crux of the book is Hewitt’s ‘versions’ (as opposed to direct translations) of Buile Suibhne, the twelfth century Irish epic about a king who is cursed with madness by a monk, and has to live in the woods among the birds (I can’t find any justification for the assertion that he becomes a bird himself in the translations available to me). Seamus Heaney produced a translation in 1985, and I’ve found it useful to compare the two. Heaney’s Sweeney is a very physical, forceful disruptive man, reacting with violence whenever he is crossed, and rampaging about Ireland
poking his way into hard rocky clefts, shouldering through ivy bushes unsettling falls of pebbles in narrow defiles wading estuaries breasting summits trekking through glens.
Sweeney Astray p.10
He winds up in Glen Bolcain, a valley of madmen, where he has to fight for the best of the wild watercress, and he is ‘flailed’ by the thorn bushes where he has to sleep, and battered by falling from branches which don’t bear his weight. He is always on the defensive, getting into fights with people who comment on his plight, and the weight of the poem falls on the loss of the social world he used to inhabit.
Hewitt’s Sweeney is quieter, and more introspective, lonelier and more vulnerable
no matter where I go my sins follow. First, the starry frost will fall at night onto every pool and me left out in it, straying.
Hewitt focusses on the friendships Sweeney forms first with the madman Fer Caille whom he meets in Britain, and with whom he agrees to protect each other until Fer Caille’s death, and then with the monk Moling, through whom he is healed, and who mourns his death. People have often seen this poem as a clash between an oppressive Christianity, and a more pagan pantheism, but in this version, Hewitt seems to create an reconciliation between the two worldviews, without necessarily giving ascendancy to either.
I find this elsewhere in the book, particularly in the final section – Tree of Jesse and the title poem Tongues of Fire, which is a reflection on the fungus clavariiforme (you can see it on the cover), which he finds in the woods, and also on the Pentecostal tongues of flame. In spite of the close attention to Biblical motifs, it is not exactly clear who or what he asks
for correlation – that when all is done, and we are laid down in the earth, we might listen, and hear love spoken back to us.
Tongues of Fire p.69
My own reflections on our relationship to the earth and the question of moniage in particular, will be a long time brewing, but start here. This is a stunning book.
