It’s been a few weeks since my trip to Aldeburgh festival now, and thus far I’ve managed to avoid blogging about it or anything else really. So here’s a briefish run-down of what occurred.
FRIDAY
Drove down in pitch black towards the coast. Just about managed to find the place by 6PM under rolling fog. The place was stupidly quiet by that time already. We tried to make it to whatever was going on in the Peter Pears Gallery (I don’t remember what — some sort of Close Reading I think, with Alice Oswald and Gerald Stern. Sounds about right.) but they were full up in a matter of minutes. Went to the pub, where we bought ludicrously expensive drinks (like 4 quid for a pint ludicrous) from a strange fellow who looked like a goat.
After this, we went to a pub-restaurant called The Mill Inn. We had booked ahead, having read reviews suggesting high quality. Having been led into a completely deserted restaurant bit with tables roughly large enough to allow 4 elbows and little else, we had to wonder whether they themselves had written the reviews. My girlfriend had a lamb shank that looked ready to leap off the plate and bleat merrily down to a nearby field. Fortunately I ordered an ocean pie, which was pretty decent…
After imbibing more stupidly costly booze (though they did have a fine selection of scotch, and were generous in spirits measuring) we rather ambivalently wandered over to the Poetry Quiz that was going on in a nearby hotel. We arrived a little late and were paired up with the last two people to arrive — Michael Mackmin (the Rialto) and his partner, who looked suddenly distraught at the prospect of having to stay for something they had only looked in at out of curiosity. But we sat down and got on with it as Michael Laskey and Dean Parkin (complete with a wolf sock-puppet on his hand***) read out poetry-related questions. It was fairly surreal. The teams at the front were clearly very keen, heads down and whispering fervently. We quite obviously weren’t; half-way through we decided on ‘Team Disaster’ as our team moniker. We ended the quiz with 11/50, coming last. Job well done.
SATURDAY
Managed to wake up at 8:30, but couldn’t get up and therefore missed breakfast. Wandered into the ‘town centre’ for dodgy lunch at a small cafe, avoiding large vicious-looking seagulls.
Went to see an event in the Jubilee Hall — ‘Four Voices’ — readings from Jacob Sam-La Rose, Michael Mackmin, Susan Utting and Fiona Sampson (I think that was the order…).
Sam-La Rose (pictured above) was a tough act to follow. I’d read his pamphlet Communion just a few weeks before by sheer chance, and promptly forgotten about it. It was only during his reading I realized that I knew the poems being performed. He’s a really fantastic reader, and I very much enjoyed hearing the poems read aloud. On the page, though, I can’t have found them very memorable.
Michael Mackmin read from his recentish pamphlet 23 poems which I reviewed a while back here http://www.roundtablereview.co.uk/roundtable/poetryarticles.php?recordID=14 . He seemed to get into the reading more as it went on (understandable really, following on from Sam-La Rose). I knew all the poems, and liked most of them, so generally enjoyed this one as well.
Susan Utting — well, by this stage I have to admit my attention was beginning to wander. I don’t remember much of anything she read, which is probably not so much a comment on her writing as it is on my being a git. Although I can’t say I much liked the poems of hers I googled.
Fiona Sampson read next. Her reading style only exarcerbated my droopy eyelids, oddly hypnotic as it was. I think her work is interesting, though find myself almost subsconsciously thinking of her as a less comprehensible Burnside, especially stylistically. She read almost entirely from her recent book Common Prayer, which I had enjoyed reading not too long before. Still, when, half-way through a longish poem, she said contemplatively ‘half-dog, half-deer’ (describing a muntjac) in the tone Jeremy Clarkson might use to describe a car (half DOG….HALF DEER) I did have to stifle a giggle…
The only other event I ended up going to on the Saturday was the Open Mic thingybob once again in the hotel where the quiz took place. I was well and truly bleary by then, having given yet more cash to Goat Boy at the pub. This was an even weirder affair, with various people reading their lovelies out to the quite substantial gathering. Most were a little bit bonkers, to say the least. At one point some guy who clearly lived locally said he’d take the slot of someone who was absent for whatever reason, ran up and said ‘This is Suicide Bomber…..”Boom!”‘ before running out of the room with a manic grin on his face.
Went home, passed out.
SUNDAY
Woke up with hangover, but shifted it with breakfast. Talked to the owner of the B&B for basically the first time since we’d arrived. Also met two women there for the festival, one of whom turned out to be Ariane Koek. Both ended up coming along to watch the Masterclass I was taking part in, over in the Jubilee Hall. It took some time for me to actually get into the hall; no one seemed to want to let me in, despite my protesting that I was actually taking part. Eventually got in, and went to get abruptly felt up by the sound man fitting microphones (at least, I hope he was the sound man). Sat down on the stage and talked a bit to the other two poets participating: Andrew Frolish and Sally Baker. Made more red scribbles next to my copies of their poems. Michael Laskey chaired the event and Peter Sansom was the workshop leader person. The event basically went — the poet (we went in alphabetical order) read their poem, then shut up while Peter Sansom talked a bit about it; then it went back down the line so we could say our pieces about the poem in question. Finally it was opened up to the audience (not sure how many people were there — I think Dean Parkin said around 200) with the use of roving microphones. I was surprised that I ended up being the most critical of everyone there. Peter Sansom apparently balked when I told Sally Baker what parts of her poem she could stand to lose…
Then I read my poem –
Ok — that’s actually the winner of the Young Poets Competition. Anyway, I read –
IN PRAISE OF THE LOCUST
It is all spindle first, then
sudden bulk on a cornstalk, flicked
contraption of weak wing and legs
longer in his world than any model’s.
Whether the desert locust
vaulting from a molten stone,
its body an origami piece snipped
from the sun’s discarded skin,
or a simple grasshopper
by name, an ingot
of greed when gathered to swarm -
the locust is hideous.
But it recalls itself in song,
the blunts of its horns
whetted to knives,
the hind legs pulsing.
The locust knows about change.
Sometimes I wish these things on you.
Which is a fairly old draft. The last couple of lines caused some controversy (thanks to Jane Holland for providing her interpretation of the lines for some of those struggling!) but generally it was surprisingly well-received. I had various (crazy) people come up at the end and talk to me about the poem. A few sane people too, in the forms of Andrea Holland and Jane Holland (no relation…and ’sane’ loosely).
I went to two other events that day — first Christopher Reid talked about his new book The Letters of Ted Hughes, which was fantastic stuff. During the event a butterfly appeared seemingly from nowhere and continued persistently to land on Reid’s head as he was talking about the late poet. Spooky stuff. The book’s on my Christmas list, anyway, and I expect it will be brilliant reading.
Finally — a reading from Alice Oswald, Jacques Rancourt and Gerald Stern. Alice Oswald was probably the best reader of the festival. It helps that I also love her poems. Rancourt’s reading was a little awkward, given that John F Deane had to be on stage to translate everything he read from French to English…I have to say I turned off for much of it, but liked what I latched on to. Stern was a lot of fun — his anecdotes between poems were as entertaining as the poems themselves.
You can probably tell I’m running out of steam from the truncated report — so I’ll leave off here with a picture of Alice Oswald and Ariane Koek (who was there to interview her, iirc).
That’s Alice Oswald sitting down and Ariane next to her. Doesn’t Oswald look like an elf? Actually, not so much here. At the reading though… It’s kind of fitting, but I don’t think I’ll be letting her know any time soon.
***Apologies to Dean Parkin — it was not in fact a sock puppet, but a very professionally-made-looking puppet.
