Apologies to all for not getting about, but someone decided to shut the M56 yesterday and this affected the M6 somewhat. Ten hours in a car with two 7-year olds not brilliant, even when that car is a Fiat Ulysse and you have Led Zeppelin
Remasters on tape. Still, at least they nearly learnt all the words to
No Quarter.
The house is in disarray, as the living room has only got to the undercoat stage, school starts tomorrow and on that day I have a performance, a journey to Edinburgh, a performance and then a journey to Dunblane for... a meeting.
And speaking of performance, here's the run-down for TraVerses tomorrow. Very glad I'm on first, as every other act has the air of a "follow that" about it.
JoAnne McKay, who grew up in a slaughterhouse in Romford.
Simon Jackson, performing T Rex Goes Hunting in the guise of Torpedo Buoy. This poem of primordial majesty will be performed on a variety of instruments, some almost in tune.
Richard Medrington and
Elspeth Murray accompanied by Hannah Haynes on harp and Buzzy Murray on violin.
Labyrinth of Wings. A very special set displaying performance poetry as total theatre, rap meets spectacle. Words by Harlequinade; Music by GungWho, Asthmatic Astronaut; Movement by Ruby Blue, Mazzulah, Aleena P; Set and Masks by MuteHate.
Yikes or what? Here's the link.
http://traversetheatre.tumblr.com/post/1366804178/traverses-launches-at-the-traverse-bar-cafeBut Aylesbury was good, and Stoke Mandeville brilliant. We've never seen so many different ways of operating a wheelchair in our lives, and boy have you got to watch your toes.
The great Sir Jimmy. Gotta love him.
Meanwhile, for Rachel and D'Oub, yes, a rabbit. Called Nibbles.
Now, Argent's driving the bus, it's about meetings, and the gang's all here:
http://argent-delusionsofadequacy.blogspot.com/I hope to meet up with the gang at the end of the week, if I haven't had a nervous breakdown by then or been banged up for killing my husband because he hasn't finished the bloody living room.
And yet my poem is about him. It is a rare and strange fact that Mr T and I had been in each other's company for a total of about sixteen hours, and had no physical contact whatsoever, when he asked me to marry him and I said "Yes". In the poem below I have omitted only our Chester rendezvous, as his narcolepsy attack would have taken too long to explain poetically. Or even explain, for that matter.
Catch you later, dudes! Probably much later.
The Quiet Man
I
The stone stairwell, Stewart Street.
Our eyes; and I
sudden,
cognisant
of the air space
between us.
You too, I knew.
II
Clutha Vaults, bad blues band.
We did not speak to each other,
acoustically aware.
III
One year later, Trader Joe’s.
A man sent me a over a drink;
it was your in.
I explained it had happened before,
three times.
To your credit, you kept talking.
I ripped the piss out of detectives
who wore leather jackets.
As we left, you collected yours
left hanging on the wooden railing
behind you, from my view.
You kept talking, to your credit.
IV
I pulled a gone-wrong job
out the bag and into jubilation.
We started in The Thistle Hotel bar.
You did that unnecessary gate vault
over more wooden railings.
Clue.
V
Victoria’s Nite Spot.
Jimmy Scotland set us up,
with his ‘no money’ at the door.
We two alone went in.
I danced. You talked.
VI
Next morning, you were allocated
the job of running me
to Edinburgh airport.
You ducked it in the most extreme fashion,
having five minutes previously
asked to touch my hair. In the office.
I denied you this, but permitted a touch
of the sleeve of my brown velvet jacket.
And I knew.
VII
Blackpool, Sea Life Centre.
That fish the size of a Reliant Robin
in the tank behind us.
We had not held hands.
We had not kissed.
You asked. I said Yes.
VIII
And all this?
A goose egg, not a sausage,
a ha’p’orth of beans, plugged nickel,
tinker’s cuss.
Wool gathering
navel gazing
ships that pass in the night,
now an old wives’ tale.
We met love.
We met love.
We met love.
This is the photoabove that I have used as a header.
