Tag Archives: Indigo Dreams Publishing

Why are we in Vietnam?

9781912876228
Tomorrow is the publication date of my second collection Nothing serious, nothing dangerous. The book is already on Amazon and has been available for pre-publication orders from Indigo Dreams Publishing.

The publishers have selected six accessible poems for the author page, and the author photo is by my nephew Ted Köhler who lives in the Netherlands and is beginning to build up a photography portfolio. The end of November is too close to the festive season for an official launch. That will be here in Manchester, at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation on Tuesday 3 March.

The title was inspired by a Raymond Carver poem called My Boat. Raymond Carver is one of my all-time favourite poets. Someone I return to when I feel stale and in a negative frame of mind.

The poem Why are we in Vietnam? was written on a workshop at the wonderful Almassera Vella, Spain. We were to find any book in the library, open it at random and use a few lines as a starting point for a poem. Then we were to imagine finding a postcard inside the book. Where was the postcard from? What was written on the back? Who had sent it? I picked the paperback because of its intriguing title. It’s by Norman Mailer. I was surprised to find the lines and I imagined there would be an art card inside, a card I’d bought and forgotten about. It’s a reminder how working with “found” materials can easily trigger our creativity. The poem was commended in the 2016 Havant Open Poetry Competition.

 

Why are we in Vietnam?

It has held up the broken leg
of a single bed in the attic.
Everything is dusty now.
Who brought this Panther
paperback into my life?
Then the trail of the blood
took a bend, beat through dwarf alder.
The postcard isn’t of Cezanne’s gardener
seated upright in his chair,
or Venetian gondoliers.
Didn’t want to die in those woods,
wounded caribou…
Green lines, black dots,
small yellow triangles,
Miro’s insects and birds.
Neat black lines for the address,
the black box for a stamp.
To the left white space,
the white space of that Alaska.

 

Leaving Czechoslovakia, 1964

Image

 

I was invited to read at a European Language Day, held at the Instituto Cervantes here in Manchester. I selected poems that all had a European connection, including the poem below.  It was a joy to take part in the evening event. And I very much enjoyed watching and listening to Hungarian dancers in traditional costume, and a young woman singing melancholy songs from the Balkans and Romany songs.

The next morning I did a bit of clearing through photo albums and found a black-and white photo of that red Trabant! The young woman leaning on the driver’s door had only just passed her driving test and advertised for someone to go with her.  In the event her father drove us to Munich from Amsterdam, and after that we were on our own.  Her mother was Czech, so we met a lot of family out there.  The poem was included in Songs for the Unsung anthology, published by Grey Hen. It will be included in my second collection Nothing serious, nothing dangerous which will be published shortly by Indigo Dreams Publishing.

 

Leaving Czechoslovakia, 1964

When we reached the border
in her small red Trabant
our cases were lighter: the pleated dresses,
jeans we’d given to aunts and nieces;
our footsteps behind us on the mountain
where we walked with her family
up towards the border with Poland,
our plimsolls wet, our hair lank from drizzle;
sweet and savoury Knedlicky we’d eaten;
songs we’d sung, drunk on vodka,
already flown, small skittering birds;
the yellow Objizdka sign in Prague diverting us
into the path of a funeral, black plumed horses.
The border guards with their guns gather
around us as we try again to open the boot,
our stiff smiles telling us not to think
of the airmail letters for America
hidden under the back seat.

Anxiety and Dogs

I was thrilled to get the news: Indigo Dream Publishing will publish my second poetry collection in early Autumn 2019. IDP are well-established, have won awards, and they publish about two-three poetry books a month. They’re organised and business-like: I’ve already signed the contract and had the template, with a production timetable.

When my debut collection got accepted in Spring 2016, I was prepared for a dip, or even worse: a few poet friends had told me they couldn’t write for six months. But I managed to keep writing, sending work out and it was summer…

This time I’ve plummeted: we’re heading for Winter; a lot of poems have been accepted elsewhere, and another 40+ have now been spoken for. When I get anxious, I try to deal with it by tidying up, clearing and de-cluttering. That was the worst thing I could have done! I deleted a lot of old so-so poems from my pc; then put dozens more so-so poems in a single file. I felt bereft and at a loss.

A good friend, a qualified proof reader, will go through the manuscript. I’ve checked, getting confused about punctuation: a comma, a colon, a semi-colon?? I’ve put them in and taken them out. Time to email it to my friend!

During the clearing and sorting, I came across a photo album. Here is a picture of one of the dogs in a poem that’ll be in the new book.

Pablo

Dogs

I would love to buy a recording
of the dogs we had, but not for long.

The grey poodle called Pablo
with a disease of the stomach.

The two grown hunting dogs
that howled through the nights

of a week, tore a door to shreds,
were returned to the owner.

Our red Irish setter Alexander,
re-homed when my father

gave up the battle and our whole
family moved into that small flat.