written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society
Tuesday 28 February 2012
Monday 27 February 2012
If I didn't write
The blockade I feel is self-imposed.
Writing poems vexes me
Sunday 26 February 2012
Palliser's Theory
My friend Charles Palliser, a fine literary novelist who has sold books on a commercial scale (notably his masterful ‘Quincunx’) once told me his theory about a sliding scale of writers, with fame at one end, and riches at the other.
‘Think of the most famous writers in the world, those that everyone has heard of; Joyce, Beckett, Yeats etc. Never earned a penny in their lifetimes, not really. Contrast them with the writers you’ve never heard of who sell millions. The trick is to be about halfway in-between.’
I was reminded of the force of Palliser’s Theory last weekend when James Patterson was the subject of the Q&A feature in the Guardian Weekend mag. Who he? He the world’s best selling novelist. I’ve never read a word, but I doubt very much that he’s a great writer. In fact, I bet you that I’m a ‘better’ writer than him.
On what evidence do I base this bold claim? Because I have ‘literary’pretentions, by which I mean I’m attempting to justify every word I write. This ‘and’ is here, that semi-colon is there for a reason. It doesn’t, it can’t, always work. Perfectionism is the enemy of art, and although poets might come closer, a prose writer is pretty much always going to miss the target. But a ‘literary’ writer is at least having a go at getting it right. Patterson, I strongly suspect, isn’t even trying because he doesn’t have enough time, but I don’t think that matters, because his stuff has narrative vim. He is spinning yarns, very profitably, and bloody good luck to him. Trust me, if I could knock out a unit shifting thriller, I’d start today.
For the giants of literature, there never was a split between literary and commercial. Truly great writers like Austen or Dickens or Orwell sweated to get their manuscripts ‘right’; and then sold high numbers because they were also wonderful story-tellers. This artificial distinction grew as a consequence of high Modernism. Virginia Woolf hated the idea of writing for money, just as much as she hated the idea of universal education. She and her circle objected to a literate hoi polloi, because that meant that the ‘white slugs’ (as Mrs Woolf called the working class) might feel that they could understand minds as refined as those of the Bloomsburies, which was not on. Universal education was levelling, and for Mrs Woolf, that was an unbearable thought. Her especial ire was reserved for Arnold Bennett, because he sold so many books that he could afford a steam yacht. She saw what she did as ‘art’, as ‘literature’, and that was something that could only be achieved by the very best quality people.
‘Literature’ is a genre, a sub-set of writing, and admission to the genre is controlled by a small self-selected coterie of critics. The study of English Literature in universities is roughly coterminous with the rise of Modernism. Only critics and academics hold the keys to the doors of ‘literature’. Despite my fretting about getting my books ‘right’, I doubt that I’ll be admitted to the canon, because working class people still aren’t really expected to write. My concerns are not theirs; my voice is common, vulgar, no matter how much I might work on my texts so that I can bear them to be read. Patterson and Brown, however much people might like reading their books in the bath, on holiday, at the end of a long day, could never get through the gates of literature in a billion years. Only time can decide if a writer is truly great, but I suspect that those who make it will be loved by the critics, and sell shed loads of books too. Getting that particular double is just as hard now as it has ever been.
Literature by Ian Marchant:
Something of the Night
The Longest Crawl
Parallel Lines: Or, Journeys on the Railway of Dreams
Saturday 25 February 2012
Gold or Glory
By Ashley Lister
From an author’s perspective I think the distinction between literary and commercial fiction is often seen as a dispute between those who write to say something important and those who write to earn money. A colleague once summed it up for me with the following quote from the bible:
For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
Matthew 16:26
Call me mercenary but I think the clue here is in the question. If a man gains the whole world but loses his soul, he has gained the whole world. Which would I rather have? A whole world or a soul? I think I’d like to have a whole world. From what I’ve heard about souls (from those people who claim to have them and know about them) souls don’t pay bills.
I don’t see many people staying warm through the winter because they’ve kept a good hold on their souls. I don’t see many people enjoying a surfeit of food, drink or wealth because they have souls. If it comes to profit or soul I’m going to pick profit every time. It’s far more useful for settling debts and putting food on the table.
I’ve been writing for money for the best part of two decades now. It’s never as much money as I’d hope. And there have been many times when I’ve had to compromise artistic integrity for the commercial benefits of coin.
For example, I once wrote a book in the form of a fairy tale. It was a very adult fairy tale with bonking and other narrative developments a person is unlikely to find in a traditional fairy tale. Nevertheless, it was a strong book and I was proud of the finished product. The editor I was working with at that time said he’d take it at the usual rate. But he wanted me to cut the opening line of, ‘Once upon a time…’ and also lose the ‘happily ever after’ line at the end. He also suggested we should cut ‘…all the other Hans Christian Anderson shit.’
To my mind, these changes destroyed the instant identification of the story as being constructed in the fashion of a fairytale.
However, I accepted the editor’s suggested revisions. It was a simple choice. I could either say no, and keep the story as an integral whole that remained consistent with my original artistic vision. Or I could say yes and pay the mortgage that month.
Does this mean I’m a whore? Yes. Do I care that I’m a whore? Not really.
I’m naïve enough to believe that there is literary merit to be found in commercial fiction, and I’m naïve enough to believe that there will be eventual commercial success for all deserving literary work.
The Brontës’ first collection of poetry sold only two copies. Frank Herbert’s acclaimed science fiction fantasy novel, Dune, was rejected by more than two dozen publishers who couldn’t perceive its worth. Even the diary of Anne Frank was rejected by a publisher who said, “The girl doesn't […] have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above the 'curiosity' level.”
There are many similar fables of talent being overlooked by the writing industry.
Ultimately, the sheep will still buy whatever Oprah or Richard and Judy tell them regardless of the literary or commercial merit on the pages. The sheep don’t have the brains to pick books for themselves. It has always been this way and it will never change. But eventually, over time, literature is usually recognised and lauded appropriately.
All of which leads to the inevitable question: do I aspire to one day achieve literary success? The answer is: I guess it would be cool. But I don’t intend to go hungry waiting.
Friday 24 February 2012
Ding ding, round two.
Thursday 23 February 2012
Fromage by any other name would smell as feet
That's right, I'm reaching for the food analogy. It has absolutely nothing to do with my stomach. Nor is it related to the fact that there is a piece of Stilton waming up in the kitchen as I type. Surely my train of thought is not so transparent? I'll side-step the lovely image of a transparent train as well as the observation that last week in a supermarket, walking behind a woman with a limp, I uttered the words: "Ooh, that reminds me, I found a really cool walking stick on Ebay..." Damn. Not so much a train of thought as a wild horse. Now. Where did I put the track. Oh yes...
Literary fiction is Stinking Bishop. It is Roquefort. It is Saint Agur. It is a little bit scary and is a taste which is to be acquired. Aptly, my approaches to blue cheese and literary fiction are rather similar. When I first discovered Danish Blue, while waiting tables at at hotel at the innocent age of 14, I found that just the smell of it would turn my stomach. If it was out of the fridge my nose knew it before my eyes. For some, this experience would have deterred them from the veined, festering dairy product. Not me. Instead I was obsessed by the stuff. I would force myself to smell the cheese whenever I thought I could get away with it and maintain my dignity. I knew there must be something good about that cheese. Only a spectacular taste would compel others to pass it under their noses and into their mouths. So, eventually I tasted the cheese. It was disgusting. I tried it again. It was still disgusting. I tried it again. And I began to find it less disgusting and found the tingling sensation, as my tongue became slightly swollen, rather intriguing.
These days it's hard to come by a blue cheese that will cause my mouth to itch in horror but I keep looking. And literary fiction moves in the same mysterious way. It's a little bit scary at first. Approaching it is greatly helped by word of mouth and the support of a reading group or education, so - like blue cheese - it is best enjoyed in company when the ripeness of the language can be properly shared and mulled over. Literary fiction, like blue cheese, works best when supported by the right accompaniment; Wikipedia works well, as do numerous forums on which you can explore the finer details of a character's flaws to your heart's content.
Commercial fiction, on the other hand, is a good, reliable cheddar. You can toast it, slice it and grate it safe in the knowledge that it won't do funny things to your poo. You can chuck it into most dishes and it'll add cheesy, fatty goodness without destroying the underlying flavours. Obviously, as with commercial fiction, not all cheddars are alike. Some are blocks of tasteless rubber which fester at the back of the fridge (bookshelf) until they finally make their way, fluffy and grey, to the bin (charity shop). But there are some damned fine cheddars out there. When I'm down and I need comfort I reach for the cheddar because I know it will fill a hole pleasantly. It will cheer me up and transport me to a world of cheesy freedom where nobody challenges my assumptions and I don't have to look up long words. A warm summer's afternoon in the garden with a good piece of cheddar, a sliced Cox's apple and a copy of I Shall Wear Midnight is as close to content as I get.
In summary. Cheddar is popular, fictional escapism. Because humans like comfort. Blue cheese is challenging literary endeavours. Because sometimes we need earthquakes too.
Tuesday 21 February 2012
How I Feel About the "Novels" of Katie Price...
Jordan and her ghostwriter Rebecca Farnworth |
Lar
Monday 20 February 2012
UK best sellers. We're all doomed.
I will finish here by just giving you readers a point to consider. Last year 35% of books that graced the fiction chart were published before 2010, meaning we are actually re-reading the older stuff, the stuff that has been hanging around, loved and recommended. Movie books, celebrity chefs and tales from the pens of cultural ‘icons’ will keep regenerating, of course, but with the likes of Dickens and Jane Austen proving ever more popular amongst readers, maybe the trick is to buy the books that can stand the test of time, not just shout for a week or two. I caught a reading by Lynton Kwesi Johnson earlier this year- a poet I have admired since studying his work some years ago- and afterwards was left thinking something was missing. There was no delivery, no punch to it and, after years of Black rights not being a massive issue in the UK media, I felt the poems were almost left behind with the time. These are good poems that rely heavily on delivery and if I have learnt anything for my own writing from the experience, it is that I never want to be a performance poet past his peak, much rather a page poet trying to find his feet. I hope to have a new poem up for next week, until then, keep writing.
Sunday 19 February 2012
Romance
I started writing poetry about 2 years ago when I found out I had heart failure and had to take things easy. I have written many different poems about my life and things that have happened around me, and some completely separate.
Romance
Romance comes from the heart,
Romance is a tale of two people,
Romance is doing things for the one you love,
Romance is filled with flowers,
Romance is a joining of hands,
The bonding of two people,
Romance is sweet & kind,
Romance is a tale of many nice things to come.
Saturday 18 February 2012
I Love Yous
By Ashley Lister
I was looking through my opus recently and I realised a lot of my poetry could be described as love poems.
Admittedly, these aren’t conventional love poems. There’s a poem about a man who loves a blow-up doll. There’s a poem about a man who loves a woman whom he denigrates for being overweight. And the other week there was that poem about the couple who fall in love on Jeremy Kyle’s show. There are others too and they follow a similar theme of lampooning the dysfunctional often through the narrative of a subverted traditional romance.
None of these ‘love poems’ discuss love in a conventional fashion. But a good number of them are led by a persona driven solely by a motive of love.
If I was sufficiently self-obsessed I could discuss the author’s reluctance to tackle the subject of love with any measure of seriousness. I could perhaps suggest there is some sort of cognitive dissonance apparent within this writer’s need to write about love yet to avoid dealing with its serious connotations.
But I believe I used my ‘bore-the-piss-out-of-the-reader’ ticket last week. And I dearly hope that such tickets are seldom going to stretch to more than a single use for each blogger on here.
So below is my attempt at a serious love poem. Fingers crossed that I can do it properly this time.
I Love Yous
I love yous in the open air
I love yous in the grass
I love yous without a care
I love yous - yous has class.
I love the way yous teaches me things
I love yous more than yous can guess
And I love the way the wise folk say
I should spell YOUS: EE – DOUBLE YOU – EE – ESS.
Ashley Lister
Friday 17 February 2012
The smell of nappies overwhelms the scent of roses
Plus when the kids are older we can bond over regaling their girlfriends/boyfriends with these tales of their embarrassing escapades. And photos. what's not to like?
Thursday 16 February 2012
Turbulence, Truces and Truth
Photography by Linzi Cason
1
An ocean at their unprepared feet
Milky foam like galaxies tossed
Across a latte misnomer
Intention that tires too soon
Dissipates on concrete steps
A million miniature water nymphs flee
Shear stress: pretty dance
She is lost in the detail, as usual,
He drifts out
Tries to spot the pattern in the chaos
Make sense of the waves:
Whales beyond
Great, dark, hulking mammals
Rush at the shore
Kamikaze trajectory
2
The sea pushes:
Intuitive occupation
The land withstands:
Reasonable resistance
Lovers across a bed
Erosion
Buildings to jetsam
Pollution
Seas to poison
3
Bridges
Boats
Piers
Canals
Rivers
Lakes
Streams
Puddles
Fountain
Tuesday 14 February 2012
Love, Toast and the Little Things
he turns the toaster down
from his ‘5’ to my ‘3’
before spreading with butter
(scraping the excess back onto the knife)
Lar.
Monday 13 February 2012
Love poems for Valentine’s Day
Fittingly, the blog theme this week will be romance. Romance and poetry go together like, well, any emotion and poetry. They fit.
If you think you might have one of those women in your life that would appreciate a poem for Feb 14th, why not give it a go. There are plenty of sites to help you along the way and if you have a look through the archives, plenty of ‘How to write’ (for want of a better phrase) posts on here. She will appreciate the thought but perhaps don’t shirk out of present buying duties on my part (unless you’ve already done the no-gift deal, as I have, magnificently). Just a heads up really.
As regular readers may note, I keep promising poems. I keep writing them and not having them to fit, I’m not just being lazy. I have had a few on my mind though and, as I may or may not be writing something for tomorrow, there isn’t going to be a new one today either I’m afraid. What I have put together is a list of some lovely romantic poems that you lazy buggers can copy, paste and print out for your other half- should you be getting all soppy…
Should you be wallowing home alone tomorrow, Braga v Besiktas is on ESPN and I have no doubts in saying that Bridget Jones is on offer somewhere near you (as is pizza and ice cream I’ll bet). Have a read of some of these- they might even cheer you up.
Sunday 12 February 2012
Knocking Down the Walls
Today I’m supposed to be discussing the difference between narrative and lyric poetry. You know, I could do that. I could tell you that “lyric” comes from the ancient Greek instrument, the lyre, and that the Greeks used to always sing their poetry to its accompaniment. I could also tell you that lyric poems resemble songs in three distinct ways: they are shorter than epic (narrative) poetry, they usually express the thoughts of the poet, and they often give you the feeling they can be sung.
On that note, I’d also mention that epic (narrative) poetry stems from Greek too. From the word “epos,” which means to speak or to tell a tale. Homer’s Iliad is and example of an epic poem. So is the Odyssey. Epic poems are supposed to enhance the reader’s sense of good and evil, by focusing on the heroism of a certain individual that is a symbol of strength, virtue, courage … really I could go on and on telling you what these forms of poetry are and bore the crikeyness out of you. So let me tell you a little something about myself …
I hate rules. I love to learn them, however, and I love to know that I know them. But rarely do I utilize them, and rarely do I label poetry as this, that, and the other. Poetry, to me, is art. There are no limits to art. You can’t pigeon hole it. This is another reason why I don’t much like ‘genres’ in fiction. But that’s a completely different discussion.
The ‘type’ or style of poem, ultimately has no significant meaning. They’re there for scholars to refer to in their lectures and print in their theses, so … Narrative or Lyric? Who cares! Does your poem evoke emotion? Yes? Then you’re good to go in my book. Does your poem keep me engaged? Does it make me want to read more of it? Does it use vocabulary creatively, avoid cliché, kick me in the gut and make me want to write like you? Does it make me email all my friends and tell them to check out this new and upcoming genius? Does it make me read the same poem over and over and over and find new meaning in it with every reading? Yes? Brilliant. Then keep doing what you’re doing.
And if you’ve mixed and matched various forms of poetry to create your own, then you deserve a standing ovation. Because seriously, rules can suck the life out of art … they can also enhance it, but again, that’s another discussion, and maybe Vicky can invite me back one day to tell you what I think about that. So I’ll just leave you with this:
Don’t ever listen to people who begin a sentence with, “You can’t do that because … .”
You can do that. Do it. And show everybody how it’s done.
Jessica Bell Online:
Website
String Bridge (a novel)
Retreat & workshop
Blog
Vine Leaves Journal
Saturday 11 February 2012
Narrative or Lyric
By Ashley Lister
No. It can’t be narrative OR lyric – both elements are equally important. It has to be narrative AND lyric. They support each other.
Without the contextualisation of narrative structure, the poignancy of lyricism can be greatly diminished or lost. The finality of a setting sun might be beautiful in lyrical terms but without the context of some narrative cohesion it will only be as poignant as a Polaroid. However, if a setting sun is the closing scene at the end of a bildungsroman, its beauty is combined with the metaphorical relationship between the day’s end and the conclusion of a life/life cycle/dramatic period within the narrative.
I do think the lyrical quality is essential to help create a resonance of physicality between the reader and the text. Without a vivid lyrical quality the text can be perceived as hollow and the narrative structure can come across as contrived (or so unappealing it fails to grip the reader).
Therefore, for me, it needs to be a combination of narrative and lyric. Neither is superior to the other as each plays an equal measure for the entertainment of the reader and an equal measure in the writer’s intention of expressing himself or herself with the utmost appropriate clarity.
I’ve read that back five times now and – whilst it says exactly what I want it to say – it still reads like the most boring entry I’ve ever posted to this blog. If you’re still with me this far down the page, thank you for your persistence.
I think you and I should sneak away quietly now so as not to wake the others.
Friday 10 February 2012
You wanna fight?
Thursday 9 February 2012
Lyra's Shadows
I'd like to compare lyric and narrative poetry to two pieces of art. Tracy Emin's 'My Bed' is comparable to lyric poetry. It portrays emotions in an abstract way. There is no character present but we get a fair idea of some aspects of a character from the traces they leave behind. I like to wonder about the bed, compare it to my own.
Now, take Paula Rego's Pillow man. There is character and story. This is a narrative piece. I'm not just wondering what the characters are like, I can see them and I know what they are doing. I can wonder why they are smiling or frowning or sleeping. I can wonder where they have been. But I have a lot more to work with.
Lyric poems are glimpses, narrative poems are the full picture. Perhaps I am being greedy but whilst a look through a keyhole is tempting as it implies that I am being given a glimpse of something secret or hidden, 9 times out of 10 I'd much rather see what's behind the door. I crave the action that narrative poetry entails. And with that, why not mosey on over to Robert Frost's Out, Out and see what I mean.
Tuesday 7 February 2012
Happy Birthday Mr. Dickens
Secondly, I'd like to apologise for not sticking to this week's theme: Narrative or Lyric. My mind is a mushy pulp and even just trying to form a sentence feels like quantum physics.
But, I would like to mention that today would have been Charles Dickens' 200th birthday and - on a blog that is all about poetry, prose and writing - to not mention it would seem rude. Everyone loves a little bit of Dickens: be it a novel, a BBC adaptation, or the Muppets dashing through A Christmas Carol.
In the Guardian yesterday, the 'poem of the week' was specifically chosen for its Dickensian theme - and I definitely think it is worth the read: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/feb/06/poem-of-the-week-charles-dickens?newsfeed=true
So I hope you enjoy, and hopefully I'll be back with a slightly better and more-on-topic post next week.
Thank you for reading,
Lar.
Sunday 5 February 2012
The Fish has a Gun
So.
I've been told to do a post about a desert island.
I find this pretty much impossible.
But desert islands are next to water.
And water has fish.
Fish are cute aren't they?
They just go '...o...o..o'
Well obviously slightly different to that but thats the shape their mouths make.
Turtles are cute too.
Awkward turtles aren't as cute though, more awkward then cute.
But some have eyes like Nicki Minaj in her new song.
That's just terrifying.
Imagine scuba diving and suddenly 'WOAH WHAT'S NICKI MINAJ DOING HERE WEARING NEXT TO NOTHING LIKE USUA- oh it's a fish.'
That would probably make the news.
Although most things make the news these days.
I saw a story on the news about a kitten with 10 toes on one paw.
Not exactly 9/11 is it?
Fish can't live on sand can they?
It would be strange if you just landed on a desert island inhabited by goldfish like 'Oh hi there, we ownz dis town, innit.'
I don't know why it's a gangsta it just seems appropriate.
Imagine if they had guns.
Well I'm never buying a fish now.
Saturday 4 February 2012
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42
By Ashley Lister
SPOILER ALERT. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU HAVE ANY INTENTION OF WATCHING THE TV SERIES LOST. I GIVE MY INTERPRETATION OF THE ENDING HERE AND I DON’T WANT TO SPOIL IT FOR ANYONE. SPOILING THE SERIES WAS THE JOB OF THE WRITERS.
I could do it. I could do the desert island thing. And I wouldn’t need those eight records that everyone else wants to take to a desert island. I would just need the following:
1) Broadband. How the hell am I expected to blog each week without a broadband connection? I don’t mind if I have to lose my mobile. If I’ve got my mobile logic dictates I’d feel obligated to phone the emergency services and say, ‘Help, I’m stranded on a desert island.’ But, if I have a PC with a broadband connection and an active email address I don’t think I’d feel that need to call for assistance.
2) Microsoft Word. I’m a writer. This is one of the essential things a writer needs.
3) Alcohol. I’m a writer. This is one of the essential things a writer needs.
4) Chocolate. I’m a writer. This is one of the essential things a writer needs.
5) The companionship of the writers of the TV series Lost – so I could maybe eat them when the food ran out.
I mention the writers of the TV series Lost because that was one piece of fiction that I thought was brilliant – right up to the crushing disappointment of the final episode.
The episodes were beautifully written and well-acted and the scenery was to die for. The lovely Barbara Thomas (a previous guest blogger here) introduced me to Lost. She and her husband Jim discussed the myriad possibilities of the Lost-universe and encouraged me to venture my own theory as to what was happening.
I said I thought it was a metaphor for purgatory. The characters were waiting to move onto heaven or hell, depending on where they belonged.
I was assured by several knowledgeable people that variations on my theory had been suggested on many online forums, where it had been dismissed as being too clichéd. Particle Physics was more heavily favoured. Multiverse theories were bandied around and strongly supported. Adam McCance (another previous guest blogger here) said it was all Hurley’s dream.
Guess what happened in the final episode. Can you guess? I’ll give you a clue: I was right. I’d been right since the first f***ing episode.
So, because I was lured into watching six seasons of this series to suffer the disappointment of an unsatisfactory ending, I’d want to take the writers of Lost with me. However, in retrospect, I might not eat them. I’d be worried it would leave a nasty taste in my mouth.
Friday 3 February 2012
Desert Islands? Really? Who came up with that one?
Thursday 2 February 2012
Dessert Island
Pastry limpets predict the future from silvery concave faces,
every spoon a remembrance in flour and fat.
Scratched cutlery sculpting tomorrow from yesterday’s waste:
predictions of mild disillusionment, disgust,
diarrhoea. Covertly, I return to the sticky back counter.
Rummage in the trough. Fat digits wriggle like eager
piglets between cool metal shafts but every face is scarred,
pasted. Bamboo-like, in a haze
of Zen do I bend; acquiesce to the inevitability of
stubborn
pastry.
Followed back to our table by the promise of pudding.
Metal garden chair squeaks on sticky linoleum as I sit.
Complicit in the shabby shite façade, the chipped
bowl’s just one letter away from the brown
brick road to the entrails city. As Lolita sashays into grime
we swap fish faces. Gawp at an ocean of lukewarm jaundice.
Thinking that the crumble was wasted on spoornamentation,
That only custard
remains. But you, courageous explorer, will not
settle for this explanation. Cook’s inquisitive, sea-faring spirit
thrusts a stained stainless scoop into the depths, on a mission to
crumb. How you do move me, Earth Shaker, when you raise
La Isla Dulce from an ocean of disappointment.
fortes fortuna adiuva