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April 26, 2005
Cambridge Wordfest
One more to cross off Sunday's 'to do' list. As promised a write up of Cambridge Wordfest. I only experienced a fraction of what was going on, altogether it is well worth a visit if anyone wants to get it together next year, let me know.
This may sound silly but whenever I read a book, I always try and find out what the author looks like because I like to have their face in my head as I read. (Does anyone else do this?) Going to a reading is like taking this habit one step further. Graham Swift speaks slowly and thoughtfully, in descriptive passages he even pauses occasionally and shrugs, as if he is making it all up on the spot. I have only ever read two of his novels (Waterland, Last Orders) but I know that when I finally get around to reading the rest I will linger over certain passages able to experience his voice and twitch of the shoulders as if he is in the room telling the story himself.
There are many writers, like Graham Swift who really inspire me to get off my backside and start writing. I see a performance or read a book and think, that is what I want to do, and that is where I want to be and I entertain that small idea that maybe, just maybe it is all possible. There are a few however who have such an exquisite command of the English language, such a mesmerising presence that I feel as if I am in the company of greatness. In this case I leave at the end of the performance tail between my legs, head hung low, ashamed that I ever dreamed of lumping myself under the same umbrella. Fergal Keane is one such writer. He can be tender, without being overly sentimental; heart wrenchingly honest without being confessional; and tragic without leading us to all into a suicidal despair, yet above all he manages to retain his individual sense of humour throughout. To top it all off, although he is on the stage, he has such a human presence that you feel as if he is your mate, telling you all these stories over a beer down the pub, so much so that once or twice I almost reached out my hand to touch him reassuringly on the arm. Despite saying this I came so close to getting a book signed but chickened out because I knew I’d get to the front of the queue, blush frantically and start giggling like a girly. If I didn’t know myself better I’d think I was in love.
My last event of the day was ‘Poets Centre Stage’ with Nick Laird, Esther Morgan, and Jackie Kay. It was 8:30pm I’d been out all day on only three hours sleep, the fact that all three poets could keep me awake for two hours, in a darkened room is probably testament enough to their talent. Nick Laird was up first and I really must try and get hold of his poetry collection, I particularly liked his poem called ‘Bear Hug’ likening a necessary stint working in an office to the wild bears in America who get a taste for fast food and end up raiding dustbins instead of hunting for more nutritious food. Jackie Kay and Esther Morgan provided my purchases for the day and are well worth a read if you can get hold of them. For the moment I will let them speak for themselves, starting out with Esther Morgan, more later;
Neighbours by Esther Morgan
I request the pleasure of your company.
No need to RSVP
Just kick down the front door
Splinter the safety chain.
Call me by my formal name. Ms.
You’ll find milk clotting in the fridge.
Apples shrivelling in the bowl.
Help yourselves.
I’m the lady in waiting
screened behind the shower curtain,
snug as a heart
in a white enamel basin.
I’ve been listening to you
this past week –
the throb of bass through the floor,
the thump of next door’s head board,
the rasp of awkward keys,
the thwack of a perfect backhand
across a face
I tell the time in theme tunes.
I’m ready to receive you now,
my hair spread out like weed
in the dark red water.
Be my guest.
Posted by purple elephant at April 26, 2005 07:41 AM