I’ve just renewed my annual Museum pass. With a typical entry fee of 15 Euros, it’s well worth it: over 400 Dutch museums take part. There is usually a top-up fee for major exhibitions. I wrote the prose poem on a recent workshop.
Exhibitions
You can’t just wake up and decide to visit an exhibition. Not a major show. You must book a ticket online beforehand and choose a time slot. I managed to get one, Saturday lunchtime, for the Manhattan Masters. Rembrandt, aged 52, poster boy.
I was way too early (I’d gone with Astrid to collect her prize from the Xmas competition and have our photo taken) so I ended up buying books in all three bookshops near the Mauritshuis. Manhattan Masters, ten paintings over from New York while the Frick is being refurbished. The Fricks went to Europe to buy, do the grand tour. They were booked to travel back on the Titanic. She sprained her ankle and they postponed.
I won’t even tell you about the Vermeer at the Rijksmuseum, the coloured lines on the floor, everyone taking photos, the horse-tooth woman who needed to be in the photo with the painting. I gave up after 30 minutes. I think it’s well-known that the exhibitions of prehistoric art take place in replica caves with fake bones and spotlights on those red hand prints and bison on the walls. I’ll give it a miss. I’ll order the catalogue and a pack of six postcards from the museum shop online.
It’s a great pleasure to introduce my guest poet Judith Wilkinson. Judith and I are both members of the Groningen Stanza. It had been meeting through Zoom for over a year, and in March I went up to meet her and the other members in person.
Judith Wilkinson is a British poet and award-winning translator, living in Groningen, the Netherlands. She has published three collections of her own poetry with Shoestring Press: Tightrope Dancer (2010), Canyon Journey (2016) and In Desert (2021). Some of the poems in Tightrope Dancer have been performed by the London dance-theatre company The Kosh.
Wilkinson is also a translator of Dutch and Flemish poetry, including Toon Tellegen’s Raptors (Carcanet Press 2011), which was awarded the Popescu Prize for European poetry in translation. Other awards include the Brockway Prize and the David Reid Translation Prize.
The poems in this selection are from In Desert, which explores various desert experiences, solitary journeys in which people are thrown back on their own resources. ‘The Risks You Take’ and ‘The Tuareg’s Journey’ form part of a longer sequence inspired by a Dutch expedition through the Sahara.
IMAGINING GEORGIA O’KEEFFE AT HER GHOST RANCH
‘My pleasant disposition likes the world with nobody in it.’ (Georgia O’Keeffe)
I will never tire of the desert, its severe hillsides, punctuated with mesquite, its unsentimental trees, shrouded in dust.
Now that he has left me for another, a few owls and a mourning dove are all that splinter the silence spreading before me like a horizon.
I don’t need more mourning, I want to walk across the bristly desert floor that the ocean turned into, arrange some black stones in my yard into a cordate shape I’ll call My Heart.
I was shipwrecked here a few times in my life and found restoration under a pitiless sky. Having let all the waters pour away, the desert unwrapped me, and my flint faith, bound to the Badlands rolling from my door.
I set my easel in plains of cinnabar and flax so I can explore the palette of solitude, capture mandarin-dusted mountains, staggered against sky, cliffs isolated in space, rising from the plateaux in banana and persimmon and cream, undulating mounds striated with celadon and a lavender mist coating the distance.
Every day I scour the ground for fossil seashells, little definite ghost-houses, air-havens I could live in.
I’m free to gather the bleached bones of the desert: deer horn, horse’s pelvis, ram’s skull, splaying them open like butterflies, dipping them in bouquets of wildflowers, suspending them above the ever-looming Pedernal.
This morning I trekked far into the Black Place because I could, because it was difficult, because fear and pain were expecting me.
When I got back I grabbed the ladder by the shed and leaned it against the evening sky. It needed nothing.
THE RISKS YOU TAKE
‘The true contemplative is he who has risked his mind in the desert.’ (Thomas Merton, Letter to Dom Francis Decroix)
Can I extract myself from you? Someone called you a few degrees short of bipolar, always urgent, pouncing on life, difficult not to love.
When depression settles on you, you travel beyond reach, going far out to some rocky, arid place, peopled by spectres and you stay there, stubbornly studying them, letting them haunt you, before coming back to tell the tale that restores you to your life.
There is so much of you, that you crowd out my patch of wilderness, that space where I too risk my mind for the sake of the inexplicable.
After months of turbulence I’m regaining some composure, breathing in what the desert offers – although I’m not sure I want all my prayers to go to the gods of serenity.
Absorbing this swathe of wilderness, I wonder if this is what I want for myself, the wide, wild courage to leave you, your tempests, your risks
THE TUAREG’S JOURNEY
Lost, not lost, in the ténéré, desert of loneliness, where the Kel Essuf spook us till we’re adrift on the empty side of home, as time sifts, dunes lapse.
Without GPS, without coordinates, we measure grass blades, we focus without a compass. With an infinite politeness to the desert we can tell a reliable groove in the sand from a wind-distorted one, extract logic from a shrub, tell the lie of the land by a bloom’s impermanence, take our direction from sun and moon and all the stars constellated in our heads.
We will never find Gewas, the Lost Oasis, we will always find Gewas in the middle of the trackless ténéré.
Lost and not lost, so lost that we’re at home
Note: Kel Essuf: anthropomorphic spirits; Ténéré: Tuareg word for desert, wilderness; Gewas: the Lost Oasis that figures in many Tuareg legends.
Credit: Ondrej Sponiar via Pixabay
THE WHOLE MOSAIC – A DAY IN THE ATACAMA DESERT
‘Why are there archaeologists and astronomers in one place? Because in the Atacama the past is more accessible than elsewhere.’ Patricio Guzmán, Nostalgia for the Light (film documentary)
At the observatory an astronomer scans the sky for treasure: clusters of stars, nebulas, planets, comets like those that watered the earth, or the death throes of a supernova, hatching our atoms. Here the Chilean sky is so translucent he can almost finger the stars, pull them down to eye-height, unravel the energy prizing them apart, as if the story, from start to finish, was his birthright.
In this salt-steeped land an archaeologist studies strata of sand and rock underpinned by meteorites distorting the direction of his compass. Tenacity got him this far, leading him to rock face carved by pre-Columbian shepherds, whose mummified remains he gathers up, tracing each part to its origin. He finds a petrified lake, fish frozen in time, and an ancient trade route from the high plains to the sea, where caravans of llamas once found their way.
Near the ruins of a concentration camp, women sift through the desert, decade after decade, in search of loved ones. Stumbling on Pinochet’s mass graves, they piece together splinters worlds apart, bleached by the calcinating sun. ‘I found a piece of my brother there and spent a morning with his foot, stroking it, though it smelled of decay, hoping to find the whole mosaic that was my brother.’
Nuri Rosegg had seen publicity about my online reading for Writers in the Bath, Sheffield. This led them to my website. Nuri loves the UK and, pre-Brexit, used to visit often. Nuri’s website can be found below her poem. There are also three poems on the Visual Verse website.
Below is Nuri’s poem, inspired by my poem Britain, from the Anthology Welcome to Britain.
BRITAIN
Britain is a fedora hat, opera- And theatre-tried. In this modern era Dramas turn into comedies.
This country is a glass of ginger wine: Tangy wetness without a spine. Alas, the love for self-harm is mega-big.
Britain is a decaying cherry tree Turning its back on the sea. The City, such a cold-hearted cherry pit.
Not only that, it’s Sunday: my least favourite day of the week. I’ve been rescued by being on an online writing weekend with fellow poets most of whom I know. So here is a short warm-up for you. You can use it as a prompt. What mode of transport were you afraid of? What presents have you given that were returned in some way?
My father died in 1990, my mother in 2008. That penny farthing now stands on top of a bookcase here in my flat.
Before 11am I am not human
I’m blue like old potato sky. I was afraid of penny-farthings and of men with tall cylinder hats. My own hands are on a photo, making a gift of a miniature penny-farthing to my parents, an anniversary party.
It’s an enormous pleasure to introduce our guest poet. Safia and I met on a Poetry Business workshop a few years ago.
Safia Khan is a newly qualified doctor and poet. Her debut pamphlet (Too Much Mirch, Smith | Doorstop) won the 2021 New Poet’s Prize. Safia’s full biography can be found below her stunning poems.
Dave
Let’s discharge him today. We’re wasting a bed keeping him here, I know a lost cause when I see one.
No need to biopsy, it’s clearly end-stage. Sadly, not much we can do at this point, best to discharge him today.
He’s asked, but don’t bother with a referral to Addiction Services – he won’t engage. Trust me, I know a lost cause when I see one.
Before you book his cab, tell him he needs to break the cycle. Record it, otherwise we can’t discharge him today.
His notes say no fixed abode. He mentioned a daughter. I doubt she’ll take him in this state, that’s a lost cause if I’ve ever seen one.
Social services have called twice now. The daughter asked why she wasn’t contacted. I said they told me to discharge him, they knew a lost cause when they saw one.
On Placement
I donned mask, visor, and apron, washed my hands the right way,
correctly identified an osteophyte at the acromioclavicular joint,
imagined the right diagnosis, asserted the wrong ones,
was humbled like pines after avalanche, inspected behind the curtain,
tried not to register relief when hers looked like mine,
translated incorrectly, blamed my parents for speaking English in the house.
I donned mask, visor, and apron, washed my hands the right way,
noted an antibiotic prescription for a young wife’s sudden death,
and a son’s hanging decades later, ate fish and chips during a discussion
on seven-year old M, presenting with pain down there (by his cousin),
taken into care after being removed for witnessing Mum’s self-immolation.
After, I wiped the mushy peas from my mouth.
I donned mask, visor, and apron, washed my hands the right way,
vaccinated death in a red dressing gown, touched its eggshell, auscultated its yolk.
I have heard ghosts blooming like spring mist through my stethoscope.
River (After Selima Hill)
Other people’s mothers shout at them in public, I cry in the car on the way back from dinner. Other people’s mothers don’t cremate their daughters with a look. My mother opens like the seed of a tree.
I am sorry, she says. You are right. But other people’s mothers had the chance to be daughters. Other people’s mothers were softened by rivers. I had to be bedrock all my life.
I am sorry you can feel silt in my love, but know you are water to me. Wherever you run I’ll run under you, holding the current like no one else can.
But where are you really from?
Clay. A shapeshifting clot of blood. A kernel inside the first shell- breath of God. Primordial soup, reduced to its atoms after being brought to boil. The same place as the stars and birds, where everything that ever existed was wrapped in tin foil and microwaved into being. An iron ballerina, pirouetting round the Sun and sweating out the Oceans. Mountains formed in an ice tray mould. A patch of grass that drifted from elsewhere. A patch of grass still drifting. Like a refugee with amnesia, I cannot recall home, though once in a while, I catch its fragrance on the wind.
Biography:
Safia Khan is a newly qualified doctor and poet. Her debut pamphlet (Too Much Mirch, Smith | Doorstop) won the 2021 New Poet’s Prize. Her work has been published in various journals and anthologies including The North, BATH MAGG, Poetry Wales, Introduction X: The Poetry Business Book of New Poets (New Poets List), We’re All in It Together: Poems for a disUnited Kingdom (Grist), Dear Life (Hive), Surfing the Twilight (Hive).
She has been commissioned to write poetry for the University of Huddersfield and The British Library. Safia has performed her work widely, including as a headliner for Off The Shelf Festival. She has delivered poetry workshops for The Poetry Business, and seminars for the University of Oxford on the role of poetry as patient advocacy. Safia has been invited to deliver a creative writing teaching series with Nottingham Trent University’s WRAP Program, as their featured writer for 2023.
refugee with amnesia, I cannot recall home, though once in a while, I catch its fragrance on the wind.
The striking cover of Welcome to Britain: An Anthology of Poems and Short Fiction is Gil Mualem-Doron’s New Union Flag which re-imagines the Union Jack. The anthology manifests the hope that through the power of poetry and creative writing, we can cultivate empathy and envision and bring about a more just world.
Congratulations to the other contributors: emerging and established writers from around the world. Huge thanks to Editor Ambrose Musiyiwa of CivicLeicester. Three of my poems were chosen: Going bananas, an Abecedarian poem about Brexit, In Blighty, a Golden Shovel poem, and Britain which appears below.
Britain
Britain is a homburg hat that will produce a rabbit if you ask nicely.
This country is a parking ticket on a rainy day: bright yellow with small, smudged writing.
Britain is an apple, stolen or fallen from an unkempt tree: not enough to make a wholesome pie.
I’ve been sorting and clearing old photos and old poems. It reminded me of trips out into Derbyshire with friends: taking the cable car up to the Heights of Abraham, walking through the historic centre of Buxton. The Buxton Baths date back to Roman times. In the Georgian and Victorian period these were developed. Buxton is the highest market town in England. Easter can be early or late – walking through snow or sitting out in sunshine. Enjoy your Easter, wherever you are.
Buxton Centre
Buxton, 2pm
Here is Buxton Spa, Easter, green hills. Not a credit card between us.
Good intentions: it’s the year of the Pig.
We’ve been to China, lugged back soldiers from Xian, wrapped in towels.
Now they’re resting under the Red Cross.
For our next birthdays, we say, we just want Prosecco, book tokens, no bric-a-brac,
but our hands are restless, our fingers flick through a tray of rings.
Yesterday, the camping where I have my static caravan opened for the season. This post explains how I ended up in the Netherlands via Ethiopia.
Marianne Carolan and I met through being students at the Open University. She had come across a young boy while on a study tour of Ethiopia. She started to sponsor him. Her friends, colleagues and neighbours followed suit. As the young people finished secondary education, the cost became too much for individuals. Therefore, Marianne set up the Lalibela Educational Trust (LET) in 2006 to raise funds which paid the fees for University and Nursing College.
With Marianne and several other sponsors I travelled to Ethiopia in January 2007, during Timket, the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church celebration of Epiphany. I met my ‘son’ and his widowed mother. With its rock churches, Lalibela is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Early this century Marianne had bought a second-hand static caravan in Wassenaar, the small town near The Hague which was her birthplace. At the time of her death in July 2008, the charity was sponsoring 26 young people. They are now doctors, engineers, nurses, IT professionals and entrepreneurs. She left her old caravan to me and I bought a new one a few years later.
Marianne Carolan (centre)
Night Flight, January 2007
Addis Ababa to Heathrow. Us two, stretched out across three seats at the back of the plane.
Lalibela and the rock churches. We wear the Shamma they gave us for Timket: The boys we sponsor.
Lat month I was in Manchester, walking down Portland Street on my way to Piccadilly Station. It reminded me of my brief time (seven months) when I worked for the Greater Manchester Council (GMC). With my boss I ran workshops helping to prepare staff for job applications, CVs, interview techniques and salary negotiation. The GMC was the top tier local government administrative body. Its 106 members came from 10 district councils with which it shared power from 1/4/1974 until 30/3/86. Most of those district councils were Labour: not to the liking of Margaret Thatcher. Her Conservative Government abolished the GMC as well as the GLC (Greater London Council). Hence all that preparation for new jobs.
Abolition Greater Manchester Council, March 1986
That was the time I went as a dominatrix. I wore my jodhpurs, riding boots, carried a whip. I had my Cleopatra eyes, and black bra under a side-less top.
Rebecca, my boss, had dyed her bob orange. Tony, always modest, in dinner jacket, bow tie, trainers, and baseball cap. Black lace gloves for the HR woman in the wheelchair.
The young clerks were versions of cowboys and Indians. We conga-ed across the zebra crossing onto Piccadilly Gardens. Later we carried on drinking in the empty offices, stroked and kissed the bricks of County Hall.
It is a great pleasure to introduce this month’s guest poet Rebecca (Becky) Cullen. Her poem February appeared last month. Becky and I met on a poetry workshop where I bought A Reader’s Guide To Time. This was the winner of the 2021 Live Canon Collection Competition.
Here is Becky’s biography: Rebecca Cullen has a PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. She was the second poet-in-residence at Newstead Abbey, ancestral home of George Gordon, Lord Byron. Director of the Writing, Reading and Pleasure (WRAP) extracurricular programme at Nottingham Trent University, Rebecca also curates and presents the Notts TV Book Club.
Photo credit: Fabrice Gagos
The collection is divided into eight sections, each representing a different kind of time. Becky ends her prologue with It’s time I love, winding as a cat wraps round an ankle. Here are four poems from Historical Time (n.b. timelines, clocks), Deep Time, Poetic Time (also ‘of Reading’) and Subjective Time (‘of our lives’), respectively.
Paris, Grands Passages
To enter requires trust: you can’t see the end from the beginning. You can’t see the next beginning.
Shop names are the contents page; each entrance is a diorama. Post yourself into the future.
At Hotel Chopin, climb the three red stairs. Would you like to buy a sink? A model of a carousel?
The tiles are monochrome and harlequin. The gates can keep you out, or keep you in.
In the window of the librarie, two wax children read a book, sitting in a rowing boat.
Claim a tall-backed chair at the café draped in vines, warm beneath the glass roofs pinched like fish spines.
The taxidermist stitches swans’ wings to a fox. Come, watch the past play, hear your heels knock.
Night Fragment
He wakes her with a ball of sorry. He wants her to hold it, keep it, as brash and bold as the coin in her lungs.
His sob comes, warms her gut, the flex of his young arm gone.
In the four o’clock light, her face is crumpled, dirty.
Garden at Newstead Abbey
Peacocks at Byron’s Pile
I had a dream of Newstead Abbey, that I was drifting through the garden and the blowsy flowers were heavy on the walls.
The words are just ahead of me this morning, the word for a large purple or white blowsy flower, a climber, and a tree’s branches so they grow
outstretched in two dimensions. Espalier. Both these things are in my head, somewhere, but the sparrows roost near the monk’s pond,
which also has its own name, and overlook the stump of oak on a lawn where a raven has been adopted by two geese;
they are always in correspondence, everywhere the remnants of a godforsaken kiss, the three of them, like this. Clematis.
My Father and I
Sometimes we didn’t get on. The songs I sang would please his ear. But I would over-act, embarrass him.
Now we go to appointments more often than we go for lunch. After the last tests he couldn’t be left alone. I spread across one sofa,
he slouched on his, and we watched a documentary on Howard Hughes; I didn’t know about the aviation or the Hollywood years.
So. We both kept turning up, not giving in. Lately, I’ve taken to calling him daddy.
Acacia Publications 