Holiday reading

I'm not long back from holiday, in which time I produced a villanelle (I was in France, after all!) and a melting snowball (it was hot, after all!). Here I am, sitting beneath a chestnut tree next to an old castle, wearing a kaftan (ever the pro) and knocking out a little watercolour of a nearby garden, which prompted an old fella to pop down from his very high-up balcony to find out what I was up to. I showed him the picture and explained that I'm really bad at painting, but that it's good for my <<bien-être>>, pointing to my noggin.

I also read a ton of poetry and some quite strange prose, maybe autofiction, maybe memoir, maybe a little of both or indeed neither. I bought some French books, including Michel Butor's Collation, which I've yet to start as it's quite the hefty tome, so I left it à Paris while I trained and bussed it to relax en Provence. I also bought (for the second time, accidentally) Nathalie Sarraute's L'usage de la parole (1986), a collection of short texts à la Tropismes, her first book from 1939. Not to worry, it made me read some more and brought to mind Roland Barthes' Mythologies, of which I'm a fan. On my perusal of Parisian secondhand bookshops (the first was Oxfam and the next one near Odéon with a picture of a cat on the door, this third – just down the road from a lovely little square now infested with Emily in Paris fans, sacre bleu! – was manned by a very intense young bloke, who made absolutely no comment on a blatantly English person buying a blatantly fairly difficult French text), I also picked up an illustrated copy of Françoise Sagan's Toxique (2009). This is the account of the writer's three-month stay in rehab after getting addicted to morphine following a car crash in 1957, three years after she found fame with Bonjour Tristesse, aged just 19. It's fascinating, nothing at all like her slightly romcom-y novels (which I do like, don't get me wrong – partly because they're so lovely and short), and quite an eye-opener. Perhaps I should watch the biopic, after all. 

I interspersed the two French women with – all four on rotation – some English language poetry: Denise Riley's Lurex (2022), a Poetry Book Society Special Commendation, and The Mirror Trade (2004), the first full-length poetry collection by Zoë Skoulding. I also read Sphinx by Anne Garréta, the first novel by a female member of the Oulipo to be translated and published in English. I've tried and failed to get the original French version in a real bricks-and-mortar independent bookstore, so the internet might have to be called upon – now I've read the English, I can see that it's going to be actually a very different read again, due to a very specific constraint. I'm currently reading Lisa Robertson's The Baudelaire Fractal, to keep my head in France for as long as possible. Once that is done, I will return to her Boat, which I'd left moored at the side of my bed as it was quite cumbersome for travelling. But the to-read pile is still blocking the view from my desk to the street, so...

Critical mass

The first months of 2024 have seen me step out of my new comfort zone of writing poetry, and turn my hand to poetry criticism. If I didn't feel imposter syndrome before, imagine the fear in my eyes now. (The fear in my eyes above is that I am taking a selfie.)

First, I was invited to contribute to PN Review, and commissioned to review a couple of poetry collections, which was an honour, if somewhat daunting, although the comments back were on the whole pretty positive and the amends (well, really additions – expand on what you really think) were minimal. I subsequently found out that my contribution was "typically stylish and brilliant", which is nice, and that PNR (to his friends) "will be hoping to publish her work again in future". The issue in which my two reviews appear has just hit the shelves, and you can find out more here.

So in between the writing of the PN Review reviews and the feedback, I applied for a six-week workshop series facilitated by Manchester Poetry Library at Manchester Metropolitan University for a tight band of eight new and emerging critics – and subsequently became a member of The Critic Collective.

Over the course of my career writing and editing for magazines and newspapers and culture websites and wotnot, I've written my fair share of reviews and previews of different art forms (literature, theatre, dance, cinema, visual arts, and even pantos; oh yes I did!), but I thought it would be beneficial to get more of insight into the "art" of criticism.

The aim of these workshops was to challenge expectations about what criticism is and can do, and consider criticism as a creative practice – drawing on art-writing and performance criticism, as well as using poetry as part of reviewing writing, events, recordings and exhibitions. 

We looked at and discussed various examples and approaches, and were treated to workshops from three guests: writer, translator and former editor of Modern Poetry in Translation Khairani Barokka, TS Eliot and Forward Prize-shortlisted poet Kit Fan, and John McAuliffe, Professor of Poetry at the University of Manchester and co-director of the Centre of New Writing, and Associate Publisher of Carcanet Press and co-editor of PN Review.

The Critic Collective lives on, is the aim, and the culmination of the six weeks is the commission of a review from each of us who took part. I'm still gathering source material for my piece, having decided to review not only Jos Charles's collection a Year & other poems just out with Broken Sleep Books (whose "A Call To Arms" campaign you should totally support – browse the bookshop here), but also her brilliant reading (and chat with Manchester Writing School's Andrew McMillan, below, as part of the new and very welcome live series – keep your peelers peeled on Creative Tourist for regular updates) at the Poetry Library round the end of April, bookending her residency there. As such, there is more to be studied, and I'm just waiting on getting eyes on that.

Magical surrealism

I've just had a "writing week" in Shropshire and picked up this book on Chagall in a charity bookshop on my travels, for the princely sum of £1.50, and since poured out 1,000 words in a sort of experimental style (not poetry nor prose) inspired by his “magical surrealism” and taking as its start (and end) point my encounter with the ceiling he painted in the main auditorium at the Opéra Garnier in Paris, which was unveiled 60 years ago to, of course, both acclaim and derision. 

It (the ceiling) has his signature flying folk and funny animals and embracing lovers and bright colours and circus motifs and also sights in my favourite city, including le Tour Eiffel and l’Arc de Triomphe and Sacre Coeur. I don't have a photo of the ceiling, I don't think, as when I visited it was all film, baby, and I was young and skint and couldn’t afford much in the way of development so didn’t take tons of pictures aside from my arty stuff (City & Guilds in photography, I’ll have you know).

I do remember snapping the other Paris opera, the one at Bastille, as I really liked the juxtaposition of old and new architecture, and Paris really was falling down in parts at that time (the 90s, since you're asking), but with these big shiny edifices plonked in the middle of the crumbling masonry. I'll have to dig out the photo; I feel it was in black and white for extra contrast.

My mum's just dropped off another Chagall book, so I'll be having a leaf through that when I get a chance. Right now, I'm trying to finish the latest novel in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City series, as it's due back at the library. He swore the Anna Madrigal one was the last, but then snuck this in ten years or so later. You'd have thought he might have been able to find a decent proofreader in all that time...

Thinking big

Following on from my last post, "Confluence" has been written and it's had its world premiere! The first of two Stockport Stories showcases took place last Thursday at the rather wonderful Rare Mags bookshop in Stockport Underbanks (I snaffled Sheila Heti's Alphabetical Diaries while I was there, and can't wait to read it) and lots of lovely comments ensued. 

The second airing is this Saturday at Marple's marvellous Mura Ma art gallery, which is in an old bank, complete with baffled vault, from where I'm pondering meandering out and among the audience to perform my piece. Grab one of the few remaining free tickets here... 

I've really enjoyed working on this commission, which from the offset I knew had to be about the River Mersey and early on decided needed to be a poem rather than a story, with the form reflecting both the subject and the shape, if you will, of the performance. I decided one longer poem would fit the bill and took a little inspiration from the opening of Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood, describing a peopled but peopleless waterfront Llareggub and its night-time nature and landscape. In "Confluence", we start with a snapshot of the point where the Goyt meets the Tame, from where we, writer and reader, set off on a journey under the Merseyway shopping centre before being daylighted beneath the famous viaduct.

After working on "Lune", my water erosion-themed title poem to Lune, my most recent pamphlet – btw, there's just one remaining copy from the limited-edition printrun in the Red Ceilings Press online store here; snap it up, yes? – as well as some short sequences – including five linked urban-rural 100-word prose poems called "Roars", out soon in the acclaimed Spelt Magazine, launching online on Friday 3 May – I've been enjoying the scope that longer poetry may offer. 

I'm keen to explore further longer forms of poetry, like poetic sequences, long poems, book-length poems and linked collections, and I'm seeking out more reading matter along the lines of, for example, Alice Oswald's riverine Dart, Bernadette Mayer's 24-hour experiment Midwinter Day and Hope Mirrlees' early modernist city guide Paris, so hit me up with suggestions to add to my reading list!

In the meantime, I'm pondering my own way in to an experimental text about the City of Lights. As keen readers will know, Paris is my favourite place, and I've spotted a callout for work about it – and since it's where Oulipo was established, it seems rude to not at least try out some ideas, especially as April – as per – began with my annual Perecian observation exercise, despite (for the second year running) being sick. I'm also working on something short about shadows and swallows (I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of one soon!) for my workshop group and I'm also (I know, stop it) thinking about another bird-based project, so let's see if that, er, takes off...

Stockport Stories

It's all about Stockport this month as I'm currently researching the Town Of Culture for a new commission called Stockport Stories and I'm also reading there this coming Saturday, at the first-ever event at the brand-new Underbanks branch of Greenhouse Books – the showcase of Confingo writers, including myself, Elizabeth Baines, David Gaffney and Adrian Slatcher has now sold out!

Not to worry if you missed out on tickets to that, though – tickets have just gone "on sale" (they're free!) for our first Stockport Stories performance. You can get your mitts on them here. The premiere takes place on Thursday 11 April at the awesome Rare Mags in Underbanks; the second airing will be at the wonderful Mura Ma Art Gallery in Marple on Saturday 20 April. See the lovely poster by creative Stopfordian David Bailey for all the details – I can’t wait to meander among you with my watery words exploring the rivers swirling beneath your feet as you wander the Merseyway mall munching your Greggs pasty!

A week or so back, I took advantage of a day swap with Jobshare Matt and jumped aboard a No42, heading off on a day trip to sunny Stockport (actually, it made an attempt to mizzle as we got off the bus). ‘Twas a writing project research trip to check out the rivers and find the confluence of the Tame and Goyt and the resulting source of the Mersey, as seen from a cobbledy road that crosses the nice old double span sandstone bridge shown here in various guises, including as a painting by the rather ovelooked artist Alan Lowndes (below), who was born in Heaton Norris. The confluence is right next to the M60 ringroad motorway, and the Mersey promptly turns a corner and disappears into a culvert beneath the shopping precinct, only to be spotted via a peculiar hole in the pavement near the British Heart Foundation, before disappearing again out of sight and mind.

Once the Mersey re-emerges, down the bottom end towards the Pyramid and near the Weir Mill warehouses being developed under the viaduct, next to the bus depot, opposite Kwik-Fit, there's a weir and a beach I located from good old Google Earth, but no way of getting down to them. The trip also saw us locate a blue plaque giving a nod to Lowry having painted it on occasion (as in in paintings, not as in the Forth Bridge), pop in the Plaza and chat to a nice old gent in a red bowtie about afternoon tea, scoff a Greggs pasty (told you), procure some secondhand patent peeptoes for a dream, swing by the “new Berlin” Underbanks and Marketplace, and quaff a bev or two in the Cracked Actor. Good day out!