Archive | writing

Poetry and emotion

On Friday evening I went to hear poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy reading some of her work as part of the Durham Book Festival. She’s a poet whose work I only know a little, but what I’ve read I’ve enjoyed and I’ve been particularly struck by some of the pieces she’s written since being appointed poet laureate in 2009.

She began on a sombre note, reading Last Post, written to commemorate the passing of the last veterans of World War One. But there were moments of humour too, as in her poems she explained, she often seeks to subvert, to irritate.

Michael Gove and the handling of English GCSE results this year sparked her ire, his name spat out, pantomime villain style to the audience. It’s not the first time she’s been involved in an education row. In 2008, her poem Education for Leisure was removed from a GCSE anthology after a complaint by an invigilator about its reference to knife crime. In elegant style, she responded with a poem, Mrs Schofield’s GCSE, which cites Shakespeare in defence. The audience laughed and clapped at this one.

Accompanied by a player of assorted pipes, a sort of fool to her queen, she lightened the mood with some readings from her collection The World’s Wife. Here she takes inspiration from stories and myths and give them a feminine twist , often as giving voice to the wife or partner, as in Mrs Faust or Mrs Midas, both of which she read this evening. I was delighted to be able to get a signed copy of this collection too.

She ended the evening with a poem called Liverpool,  inspired by the Hillsbrough report. The last phrases were accompanied by the melody of “You”ll never walk alone.” I’m sure my cheeks were not the only ones dampened by tears.

I love poetry for that. For its power to capture a moment and make it resonate. I think we turn to poetry at times of celebration and of loss, when there’s more emotion that we want to give meaning. Perhaps what I like best about Carol Ann Duffy is that she doesn’t use the clever words, but the ordinary, everyday language to sound that resonance.

Carol Ann Duffy was in town as part of the book festival, but also because she has been involved in writing the scenario for a  new ballet of Rapunzel, performed by BalletLorent.

During the poetry reading, she revealed that she’d seen it the previous night and someone in the audience piped up “Wonderful”. I was glad I’d got tickets for the following performance as what I saw had me in raptures and tears.

I don’t see much ballet and it’s years since I danced myself, but there is something so incredibly moving and expressive about bodies in motion. I admired it at the Olympics, the endless grace, power and control of the athletes, but perhaps in dance it’s brought even more sharply into focus by the story telling.

When we think of Rapunzel, we think of the princess in the tower and her long hair. But the roots of the story as told by the Brothers Grimm are often forgotten. This production goes back to the dark origins of the fairy tale, with a woman wasting away for want of the rampion (a kind of vegetable, known as rapunzel in German) that grows in the witches garden.

When he’s caught stealing it, the wife’s husband makes a terrible deal and promises the witch their first born child to escape punishment. The child, is, of course, Rapunzel.

This is quite simply a stunning production that draws on the emotions of love and loss, motherhood, growing up, losing and finding a child. I would encourage anyone with even the slightest interest in dance to go and see it.

The dancers tackle any number of challenges. The female costumes which have a kind of flexible hooped skirt become part of the storytelling, wrapping and unveiling. The simple metal sets are wheeled and turned to become the tower in which Rapunzel sits and swings and dances around the ironwork high above the stage like a monkey. It’s more like beautiful climbing than traditional ballet.

I was particularly struck by the talent and enthusiasm of the younger members of the cast who bring real joy and delight to the openings of the two acts.

The senior members really were outstanding, bringing to life two lizards who act as the witch’s familiars, and the witch herself who tackles whips and even skates as part of her performance.

In dance, they tell the story with the whole of their bodies, each emotion played out with movement, from the strong and powerful, to soft, loving and sensuous. In the second act, as parallels are drawn between two sets of characters who are suffering the loss of a child, the principal dancers express that loss with every movement and sinew of their bodies. The simple movement of a dancer’s foot was heartbreaking and again brought me to tears.

I consider it a sign of an excellent performance if there’s a moment of silence before the applause. It shows the audience needs a moment to adjust, to reground themselves in the here and now, having been truly immersed in the story. There were two such pauses this evening, one after Carol Ann Duffy’s reading and another after the finale of Rapunzel.

Ballet Lorent are touring with this production, currently in Hull, then returning to Newcastle next year, before taking it to London and Oxford. I’d thoroughly recommend going to see it.

A trip to the Edinburgh festival 2012

Living statues at Edinburgh Festival

Performers taking a break from the festival

Another weekend filled with sights, sounds and sensations. Pipes and fiddles, clogs and choirs, Edwardian style magicians with mutton chops to outdo Bradley Wiggins, a flutter of silk kimono and fans, a madame de pompadour living statue taking a break and enjoying a glass of wine with a man with a seagull on his head. Only at the Edinburgh Festival.

I took the early train north, settled in to enjoy my book and the scenery and arrived in plenty of time for a fast and friendly parkrun. It was a glorious morning on the prom, bright, sunny and barely a breath of wind.  I set off with a couple of running pals but soon dropped back to a more measured pace.

When we turned, the bright morning sun hit my face and the heat rose, turning the air hot and dry and set me longing for the shade of the trees at the end of the run. Still I pushed on and reeled in as best I could and when I could finally see the finish line I put the hammer down and sprinted for it. Bright red and breathless, my exertions got me noticed.

After coffee and scones at the nearby cafe, I walked into the main part of the city to drink in the madness that is the festival.

The Royal Mile was a mad, glorious confusion of noise and bustle, singing, dancing, music and acrobatics as performers gave tasters of their shows and passed on flyers in a bid to attract the public. I spent a good hour people and performer watching, just soaking up the sunshine, smiling and enjoying the entertainment.

The fresh-faced students seemed so bold, so confident, so full of life. There was a group from Redditch in the Midlands dressed in the kind of clothes I associate with the cotton mills of Lancashire. Their boisterous singing and enthusiasm as an ensemble on stage caught my ears and I stayed to see their show taster which was about the needle-making industry.

Young boys playing cello and fiddles on the street

Boy band – Edinburgh festival style

They sang like they meant every word, stamped their feet and drew in the crowds, then stepped off the stage and challenged us face to face and just inches away to listen to their tale of hard work, long hours and short life expectancy.

Too much to see and wish to do and not enough time to fit it all in. But I tasted a little of everything and enjoyed wandering without plan and picking up bits and pieces of performances as I wandered by until hunger drove me in search of lunch and a well-earned sit down.

One day, I would love to spend a week at the festival, enjoying a great mix of comedy, theatre and music and more.

The only event I did have tickets for was a talk by Simon Callow about his book on Dickens and the theatre as part of the Book Festival. By the time I got to Charlotte Square, I was glad to escape some of the hustle and bustle and to slow down the pace among the reading crowds, browse the bookshop and fall into conversation with another lady waiting to see the same show.

Callow is a huge Dickens fan and so passionate, knowledgeable and enthusiastic about his subject that I think the interviewer only had to ask him one question and he talked for 15 minutes. I learned a lot about this writer that I didn’t know, particularly about his love for the theatre, his career as an actor/director and bad playwright. He had a wonderful way of referring to himself as ‘the bottled lightning’.

Olympic rings on the Mound in Edinburgh

Olympic celebrations in Edinburgh

And then it was time to go. To saunter back through the city, soaking up the last snatches of festival fun. As the train passed through the outskirts of my home town,  I managed to get a mobile signal and watch as Mo Farah brought home his second gold medal.

I’d forgotten to take my headphones, so had the volume turned right down, but around me in the train carriage, people sensed I was watching something special and by the end, three of us were crowded round the little screen with me yelling ‘Go on Mo!’ and punching the air as he crossed the line.

The Trees

I came across this splendid poem by Philip Larkin today:

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Larkin’s poem struck me as absolutely perfect today. And it reminded me of something I wrote, inspired by my travels to Japan where I saw the spring cherry blossom or sakura.

Sakura

Joy explodes.
From swollen joints,
Pink and white petals boom
A reminder,
The ancient are still young at heart.
“Come enjoy!”
“Today there is life and beauty.”
“Is that not enough?”
Light-hearted blossoms have no cares
Except being
Living the moment.
Ichi-nichi issho
Within each day is a lifetime.

Recovery run

The wind, clear, cold and fresh. A warning.
A thin ache in my arch, like lumps in watered down milk.
I step out cautiously, willing it to clear.

Stepping through the motions, doing what I must.
Movement calms me
And breathe, relax.

Out along the edges, the wind pushes, challenges.
I welcome its resistance, encouraging slowness.
I run.

A minute flies and I’m earthbound again
Heading into the darkness for another turn
Resisting thoughts of other times, other daybreaks
Just being here, and now.

The path stretches far ahead
I turn back before it pulls me on.
Head over heart this time.

Pale streaks of brightness over the ink black sea.
Lifted.
Barely a murmur in the earliness. Just breath and feet.
And the swish of my hair against a bright nylon collar.

An evening of myth and metaphor – Newcastle Winter Book festival 2011

I’m always on the look out for creative events. Earlier this year I spent a brilliant day at the Edinburgh Book Festival where I got to see and listen to one of my favourite fiction writers Neil Gaiman in conversation. And then spend an evening with two writers who seek to put the creative into business,  John Simmons and Jamie Jauncey.

Some time ago I spotted the Newcastle Winter Book Festival and searched the web site for interesting events and workshops. Unfortunately many took place when I was at work, but a competition caught my eye. Writers were invited to submit a short piece of prose or poetry on the theme of myth and metaphor.

I haven’t done a lot of creative writing recently, but I knew I had a poem that would fit the bill. As I trawled through my archive of writing, I stumbled across an even earlier prose piece, written over 4 years ago, while I was at Moniack Mhor near Inverness on an Arvon writing course.

I gave it another look and it still made me smile. So I dusted it down, gave it a light editing and sent it away with barely another thought.

I’d practically forgotten about it until I get an email last week, telling me that my piece, entitled Jabberwocky, had been shortlisted and I was invited to an evening of poetry readings at which the winner would be announced.

And so I found myself for the first time in the Star and Shadow cinema. A quirky little place, cobbled together. A ramshackle building brought to life behind a magic painted door.

We stepped into a candlelit room, of small tables and a platform stage. With jazz playing, we snuggled into a welcoming sofa, not knowing quite what to expect.

We didn’t have long to wait for the big announcement. My piece came an honourable third place. No prize save the honour of a round of applause and an embarrassed bow. The winning short story was read on stage – an atmospheric tale with dramatic dialogue.

And then we listened to a small group of poets read from their work. Conjuring up images of cricket matches and workers in overalls, singing a paean to Tuesday, making us smile, making us think.

The last poet to take to the stage was Liz Lochead, the Makar or national poet of Scotland. Her rich accent bringing to life the sounds of her native land, she had a twinkle in her eye and a rich vein of dark humour in her work. It was a pleasure to hear her, not so much read as recite from memory her poems, like a bard of old.

I enjoyed revisiting my old creative work and remembering that special week of inspiration and writing in Scotland. As the dark nights draw in, it feels like the perfect time to revisit old tales and stories again.

Hullaballoo

That was my favourite word on Tuesday. It sounds like a tree full of chimpanzees with a bowl of trifle.

A perfect word for a day of travelling north on the train. Watching the waves and the rain through the window. Arriving in Edinburgh to the skirl of the pipes and a bustle of excitement at visiting the Book Festival.

Meeting Lesley in a whirl of a hug and setting off walking, talking ten to the dozen. Drifting through the street theatre, finding a warm café and settling down with cake and coffee and more chat.

Dodging the raindrops and ducking into the gallery in search of art and landscapes and portraits that looked freshly painted. Smiling at Vincent’s silver trees and light shadows between the clouds on a hillside.

Parting with plans ready made for another meeting. And then solo, finding my way through the street magic to a quiet enclave of tents, books and stories.

My favourite writer greeted with affection by an appreciative crowd. Remembering the last time we were together in this place when two mischievous authors tested the skills of the sign language interpreter.  Mr Gaiman tells his enraptured gathering of short stories that won’t stay short. Of the old country over the duckpond. Of the older country that sank and the even older one that blew up.

Speaking with affection for one of his best loved characters and how she came about. Mixing the inherent sexism of language, with the essence of a myth of the beauty of death. “It’s a great job. It gets you out and about. You get to meet people. You get to meet everyone.”

Of the unprompted applause when he speaks of The Doctor’s Wife and the best ever answer to the question, “What’s your favourite book?”

And stories, stories, stories. Those told and loved. Those waiting for the right moment. The rare one that came dream bound and perfect. Going to Hell in a hot air balloon. Vikings sailing to Jerusalem. A wild head full of dark, bright imaginings and always the promise of more.

And later still, more writers, more words from Dark Angels Jamie Jauncey and John Simmons. Words loved and hated. Words mangled out of meaning. And the clear sharp minds that cut through like a skater on a lake. A reminder that writing should be kind, human. That being a writer is about simply being. Right now in the moment.

When I return home, much later and more weary, a million shades and colours dance in my dreams.

Write, better, not more and think about your audience

I thought you might enjoy this blog post from a fellow copywriter, Tom Albrighton. He strikes a case for pushing words to their limits. Condensing ideas and thoughts down into a memorable or striking phrase.

That very much resonates with my own thinking, that often short and simple is better. Because it’s easy to take in. Easy to understand. Memorable.

And that often invoves using the language of poetry. Poetry is about the economy of language. The right word in the right place. A word or two that perfectly capture a moment or sensation. It’s powerful stuff.

And it’s hard to do. When I run writing workshops in the company I work for, I often hear people say “But our products are really complicated, it’s hard to make them sound simple and fully explain what they do.”

And yet, over the last few weeks, on television screens across the country, thousands of us have tuned in to hear Professor Brian Cox explain the infinite complexities and mysteries of the universe.

He talks about things we cannot see. Describes things so big we cannot measure them and talks about events that will not happen in our lifetime or a million lifetimes. And there’s nothing overly complicated about the language he uses. The programme lasts an hour, but it’s not a lecture that bombards us with information, statistics and mathematical proof points.

So how does he do it? Explain something as complex and marvellous as the universe?

Quite simply by framing it in terms that we can understand. By bringing it back to tangible objects that we can hold, touch or imagine. In one programme, he explained the second law of thermodynamics and ultimately why time only goes forward, using a sandcastle in a desert. Turning something abstract, into something real.

So if Brian Cox can explain entropy in simple language, I’m quite sure businesses can explain their products using it too.

That’s where real world metaphors, like Brian’s sandcastle can help. To give you an example, I was recently trying to get my head around a feature in one of our software products, desperately trying to figure out why it’s useful for a customer.

It’s about data (something intangible). To help me understand it, the product manager used the metaphor of a car. We build the basis of a car, but then our customers can choose the options they want – for example a bigger engine, different wheels, leather seats etc.

It’s basically about shaping data into something that makes sense for our customers, for example, a list of their 20 most profitable products. It means they can adapt the data to suit them, but we’ve given them a head start by providing the basis (the chassis if you like).

I did smile at the fact that Tom’s blog post about writing better, not writing more is in itself over 1,000 words long – something he acknowledges. And now I’ve added my own sum of words to that.

Could I have worked harder to condense it down into  a pithy quote? Arguably. But I’m still stewing the ideas in my own version of brain soup.

Tom’s thoughts have also been challenged by another copywriter, Ben Locker, who argues the case for the audience saying it’s just as important to know who you’re writing for, what they want and how it’s being delivered.

I believe that too. And it’s certainly given me plenty to think about for my next writing assignment.

When poetry is perfect

A couple of weeks ago I wrote down some thoughts about running that came out as poetry. And the most excellent Barry Cornelius kindly sent me a comment with a link to ‘The Song of the Ungirt Runners

I hadn’t read it before, but thought some of you might like it too. I particularly like the second verse:

The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
‘Neath the big bare sky.

At the moment those images of tempests and storm tossed seas resonate with the scenes we’ve witnessed in Japan.

Sometimes poetry is perfect, especially for the big events. Its heightened language speaks to us in ways that prose finds difficult, through rhythm, rhyme and precise language. Like the right word at the right time, it resonates deeply.

A Day to Die For – book review

I’m currently reading ‘A Day to Die for’ by Graham Ratcliffe, the story of a May night in 1996 when eight climbers died on Mount Everest.

It was my privilege to meet Graham when I worked as a journalist. Breaking the news that he’d succeeded in becoming the first British climber to reach the summit of Everest twice was the proudest moment in my journalism career.

This story about a previous summit attempt is absolutely gripping. I started reading it as I was waiting for an appointment and I was really sorry when I had to put it down. I’ve been devouring chapters during my lunch break and cannot wait to get back to it.

It is a hard story for Graham to tell. He was on the mountain that night, preparing for his own summit attempt and feels that with a little more knowledge of what was happening, he and his team mates could have saved some lives.

I’m only part way through, but I know that the events of that night, the worst disaster of Everest’s history, raised a lot of questions and it’s taken a long time for the facts to be made public. Questions around the commercial aspect of Everest expeditions; about decisions taken by the other team leaders and what was known about the storm that cost so many lives.

Knowing one of the people who was there does give me a real interest in the story, but I think it goes far beyond that. It’s certainly well written and takes you right into the heart of this amazing, beautiful and treacherous place. I don’t pretend to understand the world of extreme climbing, although I’ve been known to shimmy up a climbing wall or two. But I do begin to have a feeling for the drive and commitment that such a challenge involves.

I liked Graham instantly I met him. And I found him very inspirational. Climbing Everest requires the same dogged focus and dedication that he’s applied to tracking down the facts about that tragic night. I was a very minor part in his story, but I’ve often thought about his calm determination and drive as I’ve taken on my own physical challenges.  It’s good to know he’s still out there, dreaming of mountains.

The news story I wrote and the award winning website I worked on at the time have long since disappeared into the ether. Other people I also had the pleasure of working with, including Alastair Leithead and Olwyn Hocking played a far greater part in spreading the news of his successful expedition. But here’s what the good old internet looked like in 1999 when he finally succeeded in his amazing quest.

26 ways of looking at direct mail

I’m in the middle of producing a lot of copy for a marketing campaign. And I mean a lot of copy in the sense that I’m essentially writing about the same product for a number of different audiences and formats, including a whole heap of direct mails.

It’s great that my client is trying to communicate with their customers in a personal and relevant manner, but it does pose a challenge for me as a copywriter – how do I make sure that the last thing I write about Product X is as fresh as the first?

It usually starts off being quite straightforward. Whenever I’m drafting out some new copy, I start by writing a simple sentence about what I’m trying to do at the top of the page, for example:

‘Write an email to customer Y, telling them when product X will be released, explaining why it will help them and directing them to website Z for more information.’

This helps me create the structure of the copy, sometimes gives me restrictions like word count for example, and gives me a clear understanding of what I want people to think, feel or do as a result of reading the piece.

But once I’ve been writing about something for a while, it can be tempting to fall into a patchwork approach and steal a bit of copy from here and another from there. And whilst I won’t deny that I do re-use copy that I’ve already written, especially where I think it’s explained something very clearly, this approach can lead to lazy writing and the trap of the cliché.

So how to re-invigorate a brain that’s already found 21 ways of writing about the same thing?

I turned to a few copywriter mind tricks (not quite so impressive as Jedi mind tricks, but they work for me). The first is to write using a different style, so imagine you’re writing a fairy story, or a detective novel for example. In this case I imagined I was writing it as a Barrack Obama speech.

Another trick is to set yourself a constraint, such as starting with one letter of the alphabet and finishing with the next or writing your copy in exactly 50 words.

Now I’m not saying that the results of either of these mind tricks will find their way into print, but within those early drafts were some phrases and ideas that I can use that I wouldn’t have come up with if I hadn’t made myself take a different view of the words I was using.

It’s a useful writing experiment that writing guru and tone of voice expert John Simmons employs in his book ’26-ways of looking at a blackberry’. He takes a rather ordinary piece of writing and re-writes it in 26 different styles, ranging from William Shakespeare to Plain English. Now, not all of them work, as he’ll admit, but the results are sometimes surprising and delightful. And they certainly offered me a way of freshening up my words today.