My Journey in Poetry

I'm writing this way too early in the morning. My brain popped awake at 4.45, and try as I might -- and I did for an hour and a half -- I couldn't fall back to sleep so I thought I'd use the time to tell you about my weekend at the Polyverse Poetry Festival at the University of Loughborough.

Loughborough is midway between Leicester and Nottingham, for those of you who didn't know. It's an easy two hour train ride from London's wonderful St. Pancras Station. I arrived back in London Thursday night and found myself at St Pancras by midday Friday -- a great welcome back. They really did a marvellous job renovating it. I admit that I was quite nervous as I rode up north. I wasn't at all sure what I would find at the festival and how the performance of "Dreams of May" would go. We were doing a full-blown performance in a proper theatre complete with our 2 props (old train seats), lights and music, and although we had received all sorts of assurances from the University we really didn't know what the theatre would be like and what sort of help we would find there. Plus, we hadn't done a fully staged performance in nearly three years. But we needn't have worried. The theatre was beautiful and Dave, the local tech guy, couldn't have been nicer or more helpful. Thanks, Dave!

The Festival was three days full of readings, workshops and performances. There was so much I wasn't able to see and so many people I wasn't able to meet. I missed the work of Facebook friends Carole Baldock, Carol Thistlethwaite, Nick Carbo, Gerry Potter. But I did get to hear and meet poets I hadn't been acquainted with before such as Sally Clark, Pat Jourdan and Angela France. And most importantly, I met and heard Susan Richardson, whose work I've admired since first reading her collection "Creatures from the Intertidal Zone" and who I've come to know via our blogs. Meeting her in the flesh was one of the highlights of the festival for me.

But of course, the play was the thing....Rosalind Cressy, the actress who has taken this role to heart, gave a fantastic performance -- funny, anguished, true. I am so lucky to have such an artist bring my words to life. The audience clearly loved the performance as well, and afterwards there was a terrific question and answer period where the audience showed just how involved they were. Considering this was an audience specifically of poets and poetry-lovers, I was especially thrilled by their reaction, and greatly relieved! I even sold a few books after.

To top it off, Carol Ann Duffy gave a reading as the Saturday evening event. Although she wasn't really available for "chats" (but how could she have been?), it was enough for me to have had the chance to listen to her read her works, poems which I have heard in my own head before but now came to life with different nuances, surprising stresses. There is a lilt to her voice which is both soft and stinging. I'm a big fan.

I wasn't able to go back to the festival on Sunday (which is why I had to miss some of the poets I had hoped to see). I needed to get back to London so I could spend some time with Number 1 Son. I had written here about the new play he is in, but unfortunately there aren't Sunday performances so I will have to miss this one. But I am very happy to say that "Pedal Pushers" has gotten rave reviews, Time Out made it a Choice of the Week, and the run is nearly sold out! But although I didn't get to see it, I got to see him -- which, of course, is even better for me.

And then, Monday morning, I headed back to Heathrow where I met my husband for a cup of coffee after not seeing him for 3 weeks (he was arriving at Terminal 5 just as I was departing -- don't ask...). Then a quick six hour flight back to the States and here I am, jet-lagged to beat the band, but happy, satisfied and supremely grateful for this crazy life that allows me to do the things I do.

Out of all this, perhaps the one person who wasn't so thrilled about my weekend's journey was the poor man who sat next to me on the flight back and had to listen to my hysterical cackling as I watched "Dr. Strangelove." I hadn't seen that film in years and years and I had forgotten what an uproarious and biting masterpiece it is. Just in case you had, too, I'll leave you now with a little taste. Just remember, there is no fighting in the War Room....

Back to Blighty...Briefly

It's pouring rain here today, which is making it psychologically easier to prepare for my trip off-Island. Tomorrow I head off for a quick trip back to England to attend the Polyverse Poetry Festival being held at the University Of Loughborough. I first blogged about it here. This will be a weekend of interesting and unusual workshops, readings and performances, one of which will be my poetry play, "Dreams of May." It hasn't been performed on a stage in a "proper" theatre for a couple of years (although it has been performed in classrooms and cafes), and I'm really excited to see it once again in its full glory. Excited and nervous, to be honest. I have no idea how many people will be in the audience, but it will be an audience full of poets and poetry lovers. Leaving myself open to that sort of scrutiny is a bit daunting, to be honest. And of course the fact that Carol Ann Duffy will be there reading just a couple of hours later makes it all the more nerve-wracking. Will she actually come see it? Who knows? But I'll certainly be going to see her, which is also very exciting. For a full list of who will be appearing, what workshops will be held, plus all the festival details see this link.

I very rarely go to literary festivals. It's not a policy decision, it's more a matter of scheduling. So I don't have a very good idea of what to expect and I'm looking at it as a bit of a magical mystery tour. The two-hour train ride up from London will be fun, though. I do love train rides.

I'll report back next week. And if any of you are in the area, please do come by to say hi and lend your support.

Plagiarism and Bernie Madoff

At the behest of Jane Smith at How Publishing Really Works , bloggers around the world are using today to bring attention to the problem of plagiarism. Although I have been lucky enough never to have been a victim of somebody stealing my work, I feel that it is important for me to join in on this global conversation.

Plagiarism is something you learn about in school. If you cheat and copy off of somebody else's test, you fail. Later on, when the stakes are higher and you are supposed to have developed your own moral compass, copying someone else's work can lead to expulsion from school. And rightly so. Plagiarism in the academic world, from kindergarten through university, is taken very very seriously. At least, that has been my experience.

And yet, out in the "real world," plagiarism seems to take on the role of misdemeanor. People can steal other writers' works, put their names on it, and then go on to get published and even win prizes with little repercussion. It doesn't happen often, I'm happy to say, but it does indeed happen and has happened to several writers that I myself know. The fact that someone can steal another writer's words or thoughts and claim them to be their own is inconceivable to me. But I have always been naive. But when it does happen, the fact that the people who publish these forgeries often do nothing about it, and often have to be brow-beaten by the victim into acknowledging the theft at all is infuriating.

But although I want to speak out against plagiarism and lend my moral support, if nothing else, to my friends who have been its victims, I don't want to just use this space to rant. So I'll throw out this comparison that I haven't yet heard.....Bernie Madoff. I don't think there is anyone in the world who doesn't now know that name and associate it with crimes of the greatest betrayal and villainy. In the most simplistic terms, his crime worked like this -- people created wealth by their own hard work. They then offered that wealth to Madoff in the understanding that he would use it to create greater wealth for the original creator and for himself. Instead, he pretended it was all his own, got richer off of other people's money, draining the resources of his investors and leaving them bankrupt. Of course, the world is outraged by his crime and the US Courts have now given him 120 years in prison. But now you may be wondering what that has to do with anything. Well, to me, the difference between the Madoff scandal and instances of plagiarism are just a matter of scale. Taking another person's creation -- whether it be a portfolio of investments or a story full of words and ideas -- claiming it as your own and using it for your own use is the same act of betrayal and villainy. What does a writer have as his/her currency if it isn't words and ideas? Nothing. And what does a writer do when she/he puts those words and ideas into the public arena if not offer them to the world as investments into the collective coffers of wisdom and beauty?

I said I am naive, but I am not so naive as to think that the world will ever equate the value and importance of art with that of money. The "outside" world, that is. But the insiders? The ones who create these works of art and then go on to disseminate them? If we ourselves don't value our work so highly as to protect it against theft then how can we expect anyone else to? When plagiarism occurs, it is an act of violence against one of our own. It must be punished with the same outrage and horror as the "outside" world uses to punish financial theft. Plagiarism is a dirty business. The fact that a "special" day has had to be called for in order to call attention to it, is absurd. Plagiarism is a crime. Period. And should be treated as such.

Shameless Promotion: "Pedal Pusher"

Hi. Remember me? I feel like it's been yonks since I last blogged, but I see that it's been less than a week. I guess it is that strange phenomenon called "island time" finally creeping into my molecules. Everything takes longer, lasts longer, goes slower.

London is beginning to feel further and further away, but not so far away that I can't do some shameless promotion on behalf of Number 1 Son, otherwise known as "the actor." He is in a new play in London called "Pedal Pusher" about the Tour de France and he plays Lance Armstrong. It is produced by a wonderful company called Theatre Delicatessen. As they say in their own promotional material:

Formed in 2007 by Artistic Directors Jessica Brewster, Frances Loy & Roland Smith and Executive Producer Mauricio Preciado Awad, theatredelicatessen is a growing young company that aspires to create work inspired by alternative theatre spaces, makes full use of an ensemble cast, and is inherently rooted in text - be this traditional, established or devised.

You can read more about it, not to mention book tickets, here. This is the first time I won't be able to see him in one of his plays, and it does break my heart, I must admit. So for those of you who love new theatre and find yourselves in London between now and August 1st, do go along and then write and tell me all about it.

That's it for now. Sorry to be so brief and, to be honest, I know that my postings will be a bit sporadic over the next few weeks, but do keep checking in. I'll write when I have something to say.

Up

I've always been a sucker for Disney movies. Long after the kids grew out of them, I insisted on keeping videos of "Beauty and the Beast" and "Lion King." Actually, the Disney version of "Alice in Wonderland" remains one of my all-time favourite movies of any kind. Love those big flower blossoms that look like lion heads! But the other night I went to see Pixar's latest movie, "Up," and I have to say it is one of the most amazing films I've ever seen.

You would expect the graphics to amaze, and they do. But this film about an aging widower who goes off on an adventure with an unsuspecting kid is much more than an example of the latest whizzy technology. The story is beautiful. The characters are complex and captivating. But the reason why I'm writing about it here is because it has made me think about the power of the wordless image. As a writer I, of course, approach all my work through words. Whether it's prose, poetry or plays, it's through words that I express whatever character or theme I am looking to portray. This sounds obvious, but I have found this to be a bit tricky as I write plays, and believe it or not, it wasn't until I saw "Up" that I realized how much pathos and motivation can be expressed just by visual images when you're working in a narrative context.

Within "Up" there is a 10-minute completely wordless montage which takes you through the marriage of the main character and his wife. By the time it was over, I was in floods of tears, completely understanding the characters, their loves, their losses and dreams. Amazing. Now, you would have thought that I might have learned this lesson before this late date. But for some reason, the power of the visual over the verbal really hit home as I sat there crying over these animated figures. It's funny how these light bulb moments appear when they're least expected. And it will be interesting to see how all this translates into any of my own work.

So, do go see it if you can.

Morning Meditation

I'm sitting in my bed in my house on the Island. I'm still a bit jet-lagged and so I'm waking earlier than usual. Every summer when I first arrive I become reacquainted with the experience of early morning calm, those moments that you often see poets write about when the house is quiet, the sun is newly risen and the day is undemanding. Once I'm time adjusted I guess I'll go back to dragging my sorry ass out of bed groggy and already feeling behind schedule. I've never been a "morning person." But these first summer jet-lagged mornings remind me how much I wish I was. And sitting here in bed gazing at the tree limbs playing with the breeze and the sky turning blue just beyond the walls of my house instills in me a sense of quiet contentment I usually only get after a session of meditation (when I remember to do it).

So that's what I'll write about, I guess. You see I started writing today's blog aware that I hadn't written since I left London and that I wanted to write something, but having no idea what that something might be. But meditation is a good topic. It is something I believe is very important and could be a great help to everyone. It is something I started doing a few years ago and that I did religiously, so to speak, every day no matter where I was in the world, for a couple of years.

I have my little "meditation pack" that I travel with -- a bag with a necklace of beads, a small finger chime, a shawl and a cutout cardboard drawing of my favourite deity, Saraswati -- the goddess of art and creativity (kind of a funny thing for a nice little Jewish girl from New York to carry around with her, but hey -- life is change). But for all this, I have somehow fallen out of the habit. It wasn't a decision to stop. I don't think I even noticed that I stopped. It just recently dawned on me that I was no longer taking the time to do it. More and more things started to take priority, and then time would get away from me and then another day would pass and then....the habit, and the good that came with it, had slipped away.

That's the way it is with good habits, I guess. Daily habits like meditating, writing, telling your family you love them, can so easily be taken for granted and then, before you know it, they and the joy they've brought to your life are gone. At it's best, that is what this Island does for me, gets me thinking these kinds of thoughts, gets me looking at what the year past has provided and what the next year might offer, and gets me up in the early morning. It's really good to be here and believe me, I do know how lucky I am to have this place in my life.

So, as they say over here in America, "have a nice day." My blogging over the next month or so may be sporadic, but don't forget about me. I'll keep checking in when I can.