Free Verse poetry book fair

Best thing about Saturday: satisfying my usually frustrated hunter-gatherer instincts, as a reader/buyer of poetry books.  Where else can one do this?  Even the best bookshops have nothing like the range we got on Saturday in Islington.  From £1 pamphlets to the collected works of Veronica Forrest-Thompson for £32 (I think).  From Picador to Pighog Press.  But mostly, and most importantly, small publishers and pamphlets, the former talkative, the latter, for once, browsable.

Then there were the readings, in a side room full of sunlight from a high window and draped in crimson satin; and the lovely courtyard café, staffed singlehandedly by a Spanish waitress who deserved a poetry medal for her many trips up and down a vertiginous iron fire escape to keep us all in caffeine.   

There was Spanish wine and ham too.  Now I’ll boast about my haul.  I bought Tasting Notes, Matthew Stewart's HappenStance pamphlet that was launched with the wine and ham; Matt Merritt’s hydrodaktulopsychicharmonica, from Nine Arches; Jacqui Saphra’s The Kitchen of Lovely Contraptions, from Flipped Eye; a book of poems by Helen Macdonald, Gael Turnbull and Nicholas Johnson from Etruscan Books; Xelis de Toro’s The Book of Invisible Bridges, which does brain-twistingly unexpected things with text, from Pighog; and Caasha Lul Mohamud Yusuf’s poems from the Poetry Translation Centre.

There were stalls, like Shearsman and Reality Street, that I’d have liked more time to look at.  There were stalls for publishers I’d never heard of, that I’d like to have spent time at.  I was there for around 5 hours; at one point I did a time check with a couple of friends and we couldn’t believe the day was going so fast.  What about a 2-day fair next year, with an evening event/reading?   Easy for me to say – I don’t have to organise it, or take a financial risk.  A big thank you to Charles Boyle, Chrissy Williams and the volunteers: you gave us a great day out. 

CB has written about the fair on his blog.  Some interesting observations about the different attitudes of large publishers – Picador comes out of it very well, the others don’t.  And now CB’s thinking of pop-up shops, again as part of the mission to give readers access to small presses, and small presses to readers.  Yes!!!

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This blog is going on holiday.  To Greece, with walking boots and swimsuit, to an old house on a wild island where I used to spend the winter weekends when I lived in Greece in the 90’s.  I haven’t been back for around 15 years.  I hope it hasn’t changed too much, but there is sure to be illegal and/or corrupt building, and new roads that lead nowhere. 

I want to visit my favourite Greek temple, which is like no other.  It’s at the top of a mountain, hence the walking boots.  I hope the goat-and-sheep farmer up the hill from the house will still be whistling his tune, part folk and part Bach fugue.  I hope there will be blackberries in the lane (yes, blackberries.  It’s too early for pomegranates.)  And I hope much else – memories have come back in the last couple of weeks, drawn out of nowhere by thinking about the visit. 

Nixon in China: Alice Goodman’s libretto

One big cultural regret of the year so far: I didn’t go to The Death of Klinghoffer when it was on at the ENO earlier this year.  Or to Nixon in China, Wednesday’s prom.  Both operas are by John Adams with the libretto by Alice Goodman.  I did listen to the prom.  What an extraordinarily rich and intense experience.  I’ve never heard anything like it.  The music is dramatic and highly emotional, but with an thread of Philip Glass-like minimalism running through it.  The themes include politics, ideologies, history, religion, gender, memory.   

1972: Nixon visits China.  The staginess of opera (this one was written in the mid-80’s) fits perfectly with the staginess of a week-long US/Chinese summit: the stiffness of set-piece meetings and the awkward informality of bilateral friendly chats, interwoven with characters’ thoughts and memories.  The libretto ranges through satire, bathos, lyricism and philosophising; the tone is always very assured.  It is mostly written in half-rhyming couplets – not at all the same as fully rhyming couplets – half-rhymes flow more easily, and the changing vowels can produce a rise or fall at the end of each line. 

Dialogue is sometimes stilted and full of banalities, especially from the Americans; at other times (less realistically) it’s quick, witty and thought-provoking:

Mao

We’ve more than once led the right wing

Forward while textbook cadres swung

Back into goosestep, home at last.

How your most rigid theorist

Revises as he goes along!

Nixon

Now you’re referring to Wang Ming,

Chiang, Chang Kuo-tao and Li Li-san.

Mao

I spoke generally. The line

We take now is a paradox.

Among the followers of Marx

The extreme left, the doctrinaire,

Tend to be fascist.

Nixon

And the far Right?

Mao

True Marxism is called that by

The extreme left. Occasionally

The true left calls a spade a spade

And tells the left it’s right.

A Chinese morality play about oppression is staged, where the boundaries between actors and their audience of politicians turn out to be porous… Kissinger doubles as the evil landlord.  Nixon, pre-Watergate, is portrayed more as archetypal US president than Tricky Dick.  As with other plays within plays, things go awry; then Mme Mao reasserts control:

Chiang Ch’ing

I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung

Who raised the weak above the strong

When I appear the people hang

Upon my words, and for his sake

Whose wreaths are heavy round my neck

I speak according to the book.

When did the Chinese people last

Expose its daughters? At the breast

Of history I sucked and pissed,

Thoughtless and heartless, red and blind,

I cut my teeth upon the land

And when I walked my feet were bound

On revolution. Let me be

A grain of sand in heaven’s eye

And I shall taste eternal joy.

The triple rhymes and many monosyllabic words bring out the character’s  relentlessness.  I especially like the subversion of the cliché of sucking at history’s breast, the punning line breaks at ‘hang’ and ‘bound’, and the second last line.  This is an example of how the libretto stands on its own, without the music; the two together are intensely dramatic at this point.   

The last act moves into dreamland, with the main actors all in their beds on stage.  The Nixon couple carry on one conversation and Mao, Chiang Ch’ing and Chou En-lai another, about the second world war and their revolutionary youth, respectively.  At times they move into something more like soliloquy:

Chou

I have no offspring. In my dreams

The peasants with their hundred names,

Unnamed children and nameless wives

Deaden my footsteps like dead leaves;

No one I killed, but those I saw

Starved to death.

There are traces of Shakespeare, especially in the epilogue-like end speech by Chou with its note of parting regret.  The crucial question in the middle, and the next line and a half reflecting on it, are perfectly placed.

 

Chou

I am old and I cannot sleep

Forever, like the young, nor hope

That death will be a novelty

But endless wakefulness when I

Put down my work and go to bed.

How much of what we did was good?

Everything seems to move beyond

Our remedy. Come, heal this wound.

At this hour nothing can be done.

Just before dawn the birds begin,

The warblers who prefer the dark,

The cage-birds answering. To work!

Outside this room the chill of grace

Lies heavy on the morning grass.

See Prospero ending The Tempest:

Now my charms are all o’erthrown,

And what strength I have’s mine own…

Do the Chinese get the best lines?  I’ve quoted mostly from their speeches.  Nixon and Pat Nixon get some good ones too.  But it’s the Chinese characters whose actions shook the world. 

You can read the libretto here, along with programme notes for the prom (still online at time of writing).  I wanted to know about the author, and was most put out to find there was no information at all on Goodman in the programme.  Is this music-programme convention, where the words only matter in so far as they go with the music?  Or blatant BBC sexism: would a male poet/librettist have been so ignored?  Is there some deeply held assumption that a female librettist is to the composer as a secretary is to the boss, a muse to the artist and a nurse to the doctor, or am I being paranoid? 

Anyway the composer, John Adams, says: “To my mind Alice Goodman’s poem is to me one of the great as-yet-unrecognized works of American theater.”  Oh, and I’ve just discovered that he brought her on stage at the end of the prom. 

You can read an interview here, in which Goodman talks about how the furore surrounding The Death of Klinghoffer, more than 20 years ago, stopped her writing.  (It’s hard to imagine any other international dispute having such a corrosive effect on creativity.)

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Tomorrow, Saturday, it’s the Free Verse poetry book fair in Islington; twice as big as last year’s.  Where else can one browse pamphlets, or find 50 poetry publishers in one room?