Paean to Katie Hopkins

What is the purpose of poetry? According to Poetry.org it’s “an art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content.”

 

For most of us, most of the time, that means some kind of rarefied condensation of elegant linguistics. Just occasionally it means the opposite. Sometimes there’s a bait and switch (Adrian Mitchell’s “Celia, Celia”, for example). However it works, the reader should find a new experience of something.

 

On which note, a response to recent media nonsense:

 

A paean to respected journalist1 Katie Hopkins upon the election of Sadiq Khan as Mayor of London, May 2016.

London eagerly anticipates your appearance
naked, sausage wedged up yer bum.
We’ll hang our best bunting
or – better – bright cunting
(gay panties on strings just for fun).

Here’s to our great British banger,
boldly going where your brain-waves are sourced;
artisan offal;
indelibly awful;
there’s a queue standing by with brown sauce.

1Donald Trump, 2015
 

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Whiteleaved Oak, Chase End and Raggedstone bluebells

Glorious Sunday morning spring sunshine and so I made the most of a chance to see the bluebells as they emerge here. I drove along the hills to the hamlet of Whiteleaved Oak, one of my favourite places tucked away under the hills.

 

Aside from mystical ley lines the locals have a good sense of humour, judging by the notice board.

 

I walked a good way up High Wood where wild daffodils (just past their best) and bluebells (just coming in to theirs) carpeted glades

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but some of the paths were a bit boggy.

 

Then up Chase End Hill, where the flowers were also lovely (more bluebells and daffs with patches of wood anemone).

 

A willow had fallen in winter storms. And there was yet more mud on the way back down into Whiteleaved Oak.

 

 

 

Finally I scrambled up Raggedstone Hill, not having climbed there before.

It’s steep but the view made the effort worthwhile.

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To gender or not to gender? (Thoughts prompted by the death of Zaha Hadid)

Thoughtful commentary on gendered language use.

language: a feminist guide

Last week, after Zaha Hadid’s death was announced, someone I know posted on Facebook: ‘It’s annoying that the coverage keeps referring to her as “the world’s most prominent female architect”. Why not “one of the world’s most prominent architects?”’

Most people who responded agreed that it was sexist to put Hadid into a subcategory of ‘female architects’ rather than acknowledging her status as one of the leading figures in contemporary architecture, period. But one person dissented, arguing that since it’s still harder for women to succeed in most professions, drawing attention to Hadid’s sex underlined rather than detracting from her achievements. This commenter also felt that highlighting women’s successes explicitly was important, because it helped to inspire other women and girls.

‘To gender or not to gender’ is a question that has also divided feminist linguists. Robin Lakoff, author of the influential early text Language andWoman’sPlace, is…

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Springish

Some recent pictures. (And not of any of the local springs.)

Sheep being moved on North Hill.

Primroses at Croome Court.

British Camp.

Waymarks.

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Paper birch (Betula papyrifera)? growing with silver birches.

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Auction aftermath

People In Motion will be able to help more families in the refugee camps thanks to all those who turned out on a foul February night for this. Thank you!

confabcabaret

We did it! Thanks to everyone who donated or turned up or bid or promoted or helped on the night. West Malvern Social Club was packed. We took almost £1000 on the night and there’s more to collect from those bidders who couldn’t be there at the close. The atmosphere was fabulous. Thank you all, again.

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LOTS! to bid for

Here’s a listing of the actual lots available on the night of Friday 5 Feb or for email bids by Wednesday 3 Feb. Just look at all the amazing possibilities – aerial hoops or silk (so sploiled for choice!), cookery and even archery, to mention just a few.

Pst, there’s a writing workshop on offer. It will be fun and fascinating (for me – hopefully for the winner and friends, too).

[EDIT: at West Malvern Social Club, not village hall!]

confabcabaret

More on the fabulous fund-raising auction ConFab are hosting for People In Motion, supporting refugees in Dunkirk: West Malvern Village Hall, 8.30pm Friday 5 Feb.

Come to the party and bid on the night in cash (+ donations of warm clothing, footwear, sleeping bags, toiletries etc welcome!) OR you can bid by emailing amyrainbow@talktalk.net until WEDNESDAY 3 Feb, 7pm.

The generously donated lots include workshops or tuition in juggling, sewing, piano, cooking, aerial silk, writing, flute and even archery. Beautiful silver, gold or pewter jewellery and children’s clothing has been hand-crafted for the event. There are vouchers for spa, pamper and other sessions including a vintage vinyl disco session, baby sitting, home-made baking and much, much, more.

There will be songs sung and poems written to order on the night.

Here’s a list of the lots so far (in no particular order) with pictures of just a few:

LOTS
Aerial…

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Review: How to Euthanise a Cactus, by Stephen Derwent Partington

 

16 01 how to euthanise a cactus review

 

A review sometimes says as much, if not more, about the reviewer as the reviewed*. So I shall begin by fessing up that I still do not feel comfortable commentating on others’ work; I am all too aware of my own limitations (non-literary/classical education; lack of depth, coming to poetry relatively recently in my life – a decade is not long enough to begin to scratch the surface). However, How to Euthanise a Cactus, published by Cinnamon Press, is one of those collections that gets me deep in the gut or under my skin or any other clichéd term for Wow! so here goes.

In the opening poem, ‘Nightmares’, “There are truths we cannot write/ … / We know their names,/ we know their faces.” One strand of the collection is of dark, often caustically humorous, disgust with corrupt socio-political life; the other strand is of tender love for those close to us. They are part of the same whole, honed by sharp intelligence and unflinching observation, mainly of Kenya, Derwent Partington’s chosen homeland.

From ‘Narration’, the poems move deftly into the political. ‘Lethe’ considers how “In 4-by-4s, Big Men from each and every province” wish to erase historic violence even from memory – harking back to ‘Nightmares’ (“It was all a dream”), ending, “You don’t remember? I have a cutting. Take a peek.”

Nothing is wasted. “Cutting” might be the obvious newspaper clip or it might be a physical scar or a burial. Some poems meld classical references with sharp currency, highlighting that there is nothing new in atrocities or greed. They bear witness to human frailty or abuse guised as “refined Armani politics”. Brief notes at the back clarify Kenyan references and double meanings (for example, someone requesting “soda” might be soliciting a bribe).

Many of the poems highlight unbalance in humanity but there is uplifting celebration, too. ‘Praise Poem’ begins:

We praise the man who,
though he held the match between
his finger and his thumb,
beheld the terror of its tiny drop of phosphorus,
its brown and globoid smoothness
like a charred and tiny skull
and so returned it to its box.

Each stanza honours a man who didn’t do something – violence, rape, oppression – but stepped back from hate, from any footnote in a history text, and walked away unknown. It ends:

And to the rest of us,
a blessing:
may you never have to be that man,
but if you have to,
BE.

If poetry’s the new rock and roll, that one’s an anthem that should raise the rafters at any gig.

All is written with a clarity of vision on whatever stage or scale and a complete, precise control of language. Details are observed – and used – exactly: “Did you notice? Did you frown, or did you grin?” The ideas move far beyond their immediate groundings, as does the narration.

The last section of Cactus includes some intensely personal poems on childbirth, love and belonging. “Oxford: I forget which college” has become part of the narrator’s Kenya: “chapel: small and darkwood/ like a shrine carved in the belly/ of a baobab tree…”

Towards the end (where we do learn how to euthanise a cactus but you’ll have to read it yourself to find out) local drought brings us back to the political as “The dam is gaping …/ … the wildlife …/ turn their backs, like politicians/ saunter on.”

There’s so much to applaud I’ve not even touched on in this review; absolutely recommended.

 

*Edit: This was written before the #derangedpoetess Twitterstorm.

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