Poetry and Plays and the Space Between the Two

While I was on the other side of the pond, The Guardian ran a story on its website here entitled "Are Theatre and Poetry Really So Different?"  Ah, a topic close to my heart.  This piece begins what could be a rather complicated, though inevitably fascinating discussion about the use of language and the meaning of poetry.  The author, Natasha Tripney, discusses how poets often write for the stage and wonders aloud about whether there really is a difference between the two at all.  To me, I actually believe all good writing, regardless of genre, aims to be poetry, ie language that attends not only to meaning, but also to sound, rhythm, nuance, the juxtoposition of seemingly disparate ideas in order to create new meanings.  She quotes some so-called "performance poets," which is a start, but she seems to infer that these poets are the predominant  poetic play-makers.  Their poems are written not to be read silently alone, but to hear performed by the poet in communal spaces.

This is a discussion I'd like to continue, if anyone is interested.  And I'll start the continuation (?) by saying that there is also a difference between performance poetry and a poetic play.   Performance poetry is indeed meant to be spoken to an audience, but generally it is spoken by the writer herself.  But I believe that for a play to go "beyond" poetry, it needs to have both action and character.  A character must be created whom the audience watches change through experience and time.  Poetry, therefore, only really becomes a work of theatre when the actor does not need to be the poet  --  perhaps I'll go so far as to say that the magic really happens when an actor definitely is NOT the writer.  Then a new character has been created, and it stands alone away from the writer and open to the interpretation of others, such as a director or an actor.  Having written both poetry and plays, not to mention pieces that combine the two, I have found that the theatre is the place where the writer can disappear the most, indeed must disappear. Play writing is the most collaborative of art forms.  When an actor speaks words that a poet has written and uses those words to create a new character, that's when a poem moves from a spoken or theatrical event to a "play." If you read Dreams of May, you might get a better idea of what I mean (of course I have to plug my own stuff, right?).  The title page of the published text calls it "A Play with Poetry".  There is a distinction to be made.

Any thoughts?

Creating Despite

Before I left on my trip I asked the question over here whether people found it easier to create when thrust beyond their normal surroundings.  Three-quarters of the way into my trip and I seem to have an answer for me, for now.  Two answers, actually. My new novel, "A Clash of Innocents," is being read and while it's been out of my hands I have allowed myself to wonder if I would be writing another novel after this one, and if so, what would it be and when would I start.  While wondering, the one thing I did believe was that if I was to begin a new book, it wouldn't be for quite a while.  Well...despite my best efforts, a new idea for a novel popped into my head, nearly completely formed...themes, characters and even (importantly for me at least) place.  I still think I need to wait before I dive in, but I can tell already I won't be waiting for long.  This damn thing is nagging at me and won't let me go.  So, I guess, here we go again.

My second answer is that, yes, I did write a new poem, thought I wish I hadn't.  This one was written for a dear friend who had been battling leukemia for several years.  A few days ago, he closed his eyes for the last time.  And then came the poem.  The funeral is tomorrow, here in Boston.  No matter where I was on the planet, I would have come here to be at that funeral.  It is rather amazing that I happen to be in Boston now anyway.  I've given the poem to my friend's family.  If only I hadn't had to.

CurvingRoad Announcement

Being on the road once more, I thought this would be a good time to announce the results of CurvingRoad's Call for Submission.  Discerning readers may recall that, a few years ago, my friend and I founded the arts charity, CurvingRoad, to help launch the professional careers of new (not necessarily young) artists who are ready to go public with their work but need that extra logistical and financial push to get them there.  Over the past two years we have produced two plays, one photography exhibition and supported artists and productions with emergency loans. This time last year, we were in the midst of producing the new play, "Sh*t-M*x", in the West End's Trafalgar Studios.  The playwright, Leo Richardson, has gone from strength to strength after that production with all sorts of new BIG writing deals on offer.

Those same discerning readers -- you know who you are -- may also recall that last spring we announced a Call for Submissions here, hoping to find playwrights who had never been professionally produced, over the age of forty.  The response was overwhelming and quite exciting.  I am thrilled to now be able to announce the results of that call:
        

We have chosen two one-act plays, one American, one British, which we aim to produce together in a show of one-acts:   Dig  explores through dark humour the power struggle between prey and victim., centering on the dialogue between an executioner and a victim who refuses to dig his own grave .  It is written by the American writer, JD Smith, whose poetry, essays and stories have appeared in literary magazines throughout the US.  He is currently enjoying a recent success with his children’s book, “The Best Mariachi in the World.”   Nearly Man  represents on stage that tricky tug-of-war between art and fame.  The artist Salvatore Rosa’s paintings hang besides the Mona Lisa for over a hundred years.  If they could speak to each other, what would they say?  This unusual piece is written by Scottish playwright, Michael Hart,  who has written and produced radio, TV and cinema scripts for a host of advertisers.

It's always exciting when we are starting on a new project. I'm sure, as always, there will be ups and downs on this road to production, but right now, it's all looking up.  I'll keep you posted as progress continues.


I head up to Boston soon, so I must sign off for now.  It's very much a New England autumn now  with the trees creating all sorts of technicolor displays.  I woke up to this one outside my door:

Verona plus a New Form of Exercise to Combat All that Pasta

Back from Verona after an absolutely blissful couple of days.  It is a beautiful city, with wonderful architecture, inviting bridges, mouth-watering frescoes. The Romeo and Juliette references do get a bit silly, but that has more to do with the crazy Brits than the easy-going Veronese.  They seem to perpetuate that little hoax for our benefit -- fabricating Juliette's house and Juliette's tomb as if she really existed.  The city has enough of its own history and atmosphere even without all that.  Here are a few photos to whet your appetites:

This is a view of the river and the distant citadel from one of the bridges.  No, that isn't my thumb in the way...

And we had lunch in this piazza behind the statue of Dante:

and coffee, reading the newspaper in the sunshine, in this grand piazza behind the Roman amphitheatre which is still used for operas during the summer -- an excellent reason to come back.

So now I'm home for a few days before I head to the States to visit family. I don't get much time to myself on these trips, so I apologize in advance if my blogging is a bit sporadic over the next ten days.

But before I go, I want to tell you about a new exercise craze which I have completely fallen in love with: Nordic Walking Poles.  Although I do love to get out and get my heart racing along the river from time to time, the running is getting harder on my aging knees.  These poles give me all the benefit and pleasure (?) of a good run without the pounding.  And, after only one lesson, I was able to do it on my own without falling over.  Take a look (alas, this guy didn't come along with the poles...)

Better Here or There?

Here I go, traveling again.  First, a fun trip with a friend to Verona.  A bit of a celebratory, empty nest sort of trip, an I-can-do-it-now-so-why-don't-I kind of thing. Then after a few days home, I'm off to the States to visit family and go to Parents' Weekend at Number 2 Son's university.  Needless to say, I'm looking forward to that most of all.  But I'm also looking forward to seeing if any poems come out of all this travel.  There is something about being dislocated that always makes me think poetically.  Yes, I can write poetry sitting in my little office upstairs.  But it all seems to come more easily, and perhaps more interestingly, when I'm on the road.  I wonder if that's true with anyone else.  Regardless of what you write or draw or compose, do you find it easier if you are amid your usual surroundings or does being away somehow help to bring out something new?  Or maybe it doesn't matter at all.  I'd love to hear your thoughts....

And speaking of thoughts and dislocation, here is a most spectacular thought by Samuel Beckett from his "Texts for Nothing":
               We spend our life trying to bring together in the same instant
                                     a ray of sunshine and a free bench.


Happy searching.

Poetry Day at the South bank

What?  Two posts in a row, I can hear you ask. Yes, well, I know it's very unusual, but I did want to have a little chat about yesterday's celebration of National Poetry Day and the 100th Anniversary of The Poetry Society at the Royal Festival Hall

I had no idea what to expect.  I suppose I thought it would be a closed room upstairs somewhere with people taking turns at the mic while the audience comes and goes ("talking of Michaelangelo"...sorry, how could I resist? He was just chosen Britain's favourite poet, after all).  So I enjoyed the autumn sun and took a leisurely stroll across the Hungerford Bridge (thanks to freefoto for the image). By the time I got there, I found the huge foyer filled with people of all ages and descriptions, the largest being a group of schoolkids in the front rows.  Carol Ann Duffy was already at the mic, reading some of her funniest poems in her most deadpan, sardonic way.  She read one of my favourites, "Mrs. Faust" from her

collection of "The World's Wife."
I've heard her read that before.  It's always a crowd pleaser.  Once she had finished I found a seat and realized that I was watching a sort of poetry burlesque, with mc's talking fast and loud, introducing "acts" like Lemn Sissay and his rap/poems, Anjan Saha and Lost Luggage with their jazz poetry combos.  This was not really a poetry reading.  This was not meant to be a serious look at poetry today.  This was meant to be fun.  And it was.  I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I especially loved seeing both John Hegley and Roger McGough doing their best stand up routines.
     But I did leave feeling strangely dissatisfied.  I don't want to criticize because the organizers clearly had the aim of showing young people that poetry can be meaningful to their lives and that they themselves can participate in it.  And that is a subject dear to my heart and at the core of all the teaching that I've done.  There was even the opportunity for everyone to take part in the Global Poetry System (GPS), the world's first user-generated map of poetry launched by the Southbank Centre.  It's an amazing project that you can read about here.  So what was my problem?  Maybe because it all felt just too light.  Yes, poetry is fun, must be fun.  But it is also important, and not only as a way to keep kids engaged with language.  I guess, for all of yesterday's laughter, what I missed were those "a ha" moments that a poem can give you, that moment when someone else's words reach into your own heart and take up residence.  There was none of that yesterday, and I would hope that people new to poetry would have a chance to understand that, at its best, that is what poetry can do for you, namely help you to understand yourself and widen your world through language.
     But the Poetry Gods must have heard my silent ramblings as I sat on the tube mulling all this over.  With two stops to go, I looked up towards the tube map on the train wall and saw one of the Poems on the Underground.  Clear, crisp, right there waiting for me.  Earlier in the week I had gone to a reading celebrating the launch of  the new collection, "Best Poems on the Underground."  Szirtes, Cope, Shapcott and others reading their own contributions plus other favourite poems from the past 25 years that had been chosen for the anthology.  That was a wonderful, inspirational evening, and as I've ridden the tube over the past few days I've been on the lookout for one.  Then there it was, yesterday on the District Line Train, on my way home from Poetry Day.  The selection was perfect, a poem seemingly simple, fun, mundane but also beautiful and, dare I say, important.  Here it is:

This Is Just To say

I have eaten

the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

       William Carlos Williams

Marketing Ourselves and Others

I've been thinking a lot lately about how we writers market ourselves...or don't.  The more I write and publish the more I understand that we do have to take matters into our own hands.  We have to get out there however we can, force our ways into the reading public's consciousness. The bad news is that we can no longer (if we ever could) depend on the publishing industry to do it all for us.  The good news is that we are now in a new technological age where it is easier (and more affordable) than ever for us to do it ourselves.  When I see a writer being creative about their marketing and pr, I am not only impressed, but it makes me want to be a part of their efforts...to read what they've written, to support their work.  Fiona Robyn is a writer who has impressed me in just this way.  She knows that it is not enough to be creative on the page anymore.  You have to also be creative in your business.

Fiona Robyn has written a new novel, Thaw. The novel follows 32-year-old Ruth’s diary over three months as she decides whether or not to carry on living. Starting on the 1st of March next year she is going to blog about it in an unusual way. To help spread the word she’s organising a Blogsplash, where blogs will publish the first page of Ruth’s diary simultaneously, along with a link to the blog.

She’s aiming to get 1000 blogs involved and I'm happy to say that I'll be right there, one of them.  If you’d be interested in joining in, email her at fiona@fionarobyn.com or find out more information here.


It's now time for me to take off my fiction coat and put on my poetry wooly jumper and head over to Royal Festival Hall to help celebrate National Poetry Day.  More on the poetry events of this week a bit later.  But I will say one thing for poets -- they know how to get out there and strut their stuff.  We are not a shy and retiring bunch as some would believe.  Maybe because we all know that there isn't even the fantasty of a pot of gold out there waiting for us.  Maybe because our publishers don't even hint at the possibility of making the big splash from our books. Poetry is all about love, and I love that I, in my own little way, am part of that world, too.

Luring the Muse

A short while ago, I asked the question here:
              When you finish a project, how do you decide what to work on next?
I got a variety of fascinating answers:
     * When a project is finished, I take a break and read a lot
     * I always have a queue of of things waiting to be written
     * I'm always working on a main project and a side project but jump to what strikes most strongly at the time
                               * I have a schedule of things that need writing.  I have to be very organized.
                               * I have a book/folder/file full of ideas/notes/pictures/one-liners that I look at when it's time to start something new

And then I asked:
               Do you wait for the muse to strike, or do you force her hand?
The response to this was pretty unanimous:
     * Sit down whether you feel like it or not
     * You have to be there at regular hours for the muse to find you

What I get from all this is that we writers, we who are serious about our writing, look at it as a job.  And yes, writing has to be a job.  It doesn't matter if anyone is reading what we write.  It doesn't matter if anyone is paying us for it.  It has to be a job with the same consistency and time dedicated to it as any other job.  If not, I think you can forget about ever getting better at it.  And if you don't get better, no one will read your stuff, no less pay for it.  Remember when you used to wander around cemetaries in the dark, waiting, waiting.....no?  Was that just me?  Well, you know what I mean.  Waiting for inspiration is for kids fooling around.  Writing is work, real bum-on-the-seat-whether-you-want-to-or-not work.  But then again, you all already know that.

But that doesn't mean we can't lure the muse with all sorts of desk decorations and lovely mugs of tea and soothing background music and promises of undying love.  Not to mention blogs just to show how deadly serious we are about our devotion.  And that reminds me....did anyone notice that I changed the name of my blog?  It's still about "Me and Others", but I'm now calling it "Writing Life."  As my blog and I approach the year-and-a-half age, I thought it was time to get a new haircut, so to speak.  Maybe the muse will stop to admire it.

Oh, and of course, thanks to my friends who gave such thoughtful answers to my questions: Absolute Vanilla, Tea Stains, DJ Kirkby, Carol, Lauri, Jamieson and Fia.....inspirations, all.

Being Obsessively Fabulous, or is it Fabulously Obsessive?

I've been awarded the "Your Blog is Fabulous" Award by JJ and Nik.  How wonderful is that?  It means
            "Integrity.  Commitment to Excellence. Stubbornly Optimistic."  I'd love to think all that is true.  I do try, at least.  But what this award is also about is obsession.  Along with the award comes the requirement to confess to five of mine.  I spent the whole day obsessing about this, obviously, and came up with this list:
         1. Words.  Getting them just right, choosing the correct ones, their sound and rhythm. I've been known to keep myself awake writing an unimportant email in my head.  And of course, most of all, the words that go into my fiction and poetry and plays.  I think about those, constantly.
          2. Business.  The writing business, that is. How to publish, where and what to publish. PR, facebook, twitter, networking, reaching out to more people and, of course, my beloved blog (even though JJ has reported that blogging is so yesterday, I'm with her -- who cares?).
         3. Time.  Being on time.  How long do things take.  How much time is left.  I obsess about it so much, I've written an entire novel about it, haven't I? :-)
          4. Health.  All the women in my family share this one.  We obsess about our own health, to be sure, but even more about our children's, spouses', relatives', friends'.  There's just so much to do, will there be enough time -- oh sorry, that was number 4.
         5.  And saving the most important for last, My Family. My husband who I have actually loved for nearly thirty years, my sons who amaze me every day, my parents and sisters to whom I owe so much of who I am (sorry, got mushy there...).

And now to pass this on to five other bloggers: Absolute Vanilla, Tom Vowler, Debi Alper, Lauri and Glyn.

And just a reminder....my last post here asked the question how do you choose what to work on next?  I've already gotten some fascinating responses but would love some more.  So I'll give you a few more days then I'll blog about your thoughts.

Now for some obsessive staring out the window....