Sunday 18 May 2014

Poem: Goodbye Glacier

She mourns over her empty valley. Elliptical tears
flow where her majesty once lay. Antique stills in a forsaken
museum display you proudly. Though today a deep lacuna; we together, step tenderly. If I could I would form you again. Not for me. Unconditionally for you. You need complete alterity, and I know, but although I try, complacency grips me and I cannot begin.



Little children in big padded coats, red woolen hats
and matching gloves, climb your bare bolder face and
the sorrow of your new tree line is their destination. Green
tree, green recession pole, the distance between the recorded
epochs is terrifying. Their laughter is the chorus of your
disappearance; the muted aria of your bygone stream, once
a cool blue rush from your maternal core. I take a seat on
the valley rocks now naked, and they yearn once more for



your vestment. Conceal their shame. Their ghostly dream appears and you are too far to hear their cry.


Bring the procrastinating global sovereign. Float him high to the true regicide; “oh you, neglecters of Kyoto.” Let your disturbing eyes radiate, for fear grips the crown. “Would he know where to put himself?” Your fragility can rupture the pastel heart; those who find it easy to weep. 




You are a beautiful nurturing ecosystem and 
the life-blood of a dependent multitude. 
Glaciers worldwide are entering Elysium, leaving behind the disconsolate.


Do not say, “goodbye” glacier. We refuse to say, “goodbye glacier.” Drowned in your empty valley we realise our way. A little child showed us. A single red glove laying over a small rock. I smile and bend down. “Mister, Mister, that is mine!” I offer it back to the rightful owner. His fingers dance
inside and he races away to where your 
cool blue still sustains.


(For the Fox Glacier, Westland National Park, New Zealand)         

Sunday 4 May 2014

Encounter: Writing on Holiday

On a recent holiday in Lanzarote, I was able to have two uninterrupted weeks of penning a novel. The peace of the island and its rich literary history provided a wonderful generative environment. I reflected upon some of the very helpful comments from the wonderful members of the writing group I attend, Pow-Wow, in Moseley, Birmingham, (http://pow-wow.org.uk). I began attending the group in September 2013, having written some poetry and legal fiction in my spare time over the past 8 years. So to help smooth some of my rough literary edges, and to tackle Nabokov's "little throb" inside of me, I thought I would join some like minded people seeking to explore and share literary ideas and imaginations.

You may have heard of the botched execution of Clayton Lockett, in Oklahoma on Tuesday 29th April, 2014, (http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/apr/30/oklahoma-execution-botched-clayton-lockett), and as I advise human rights regions and state governments on the death penalty, Radio WM asked me to comment on the horrendous issues surrounding the execution. Danny Kelly asked some excellent questions (his researchers had done their homework!), including a technical inquiry into the EU's ban on exporting execution drugs. In 1996-1997, I worked in Oklahoma on the death penalty, and I have been to Oklahoma's underground death row, which is called, "H-Unit," to interview inmates and prison personnel. Following my experiences in the "pan-handle state," I always thought of writing a death row novel. I finally began in 2004 and finished it in 2009. The 130,000 word manuscript (entitled: "Neomort") now sits in my desk, brewing...and as my thoughts occasionally return to it...percolating.

Before you ask, I have sent the synopsis and first chapter to various agents, but the replies have been generally, "you know a lot about this subject, but you need to engage the reader more..." (etc). My Pow-Wow colleagues (including the organiser of the group, Andy Killeen (see http://thefatheroflocks.com/) and Katharine D'Sousa (see http://www.katharinedsouza.co.uk/) have helped me to understand that in my writing, I am overly descriptive and need to focus more upon character development and dialogue. It is an art that I am learning. (If you are an aspiring author, I recommend joining a local writing group) A saying that is iterated in some Creative Writing courses, is that you need to be able to "kill your darlings" or "murder you babies" (this brutal phrase refers to deleting/changing characters or aspects of a novel, that you have spent valuable time, energy, sweat and tears, over) and while I have not gone that far (yet), I allow this darling to sleep, until I know how to handle her with care.          

So "Neomort" rests until my grasp (if that is ever possible, as in Derrida's notion of "justice" we never arrive it is a constant pursuit), or the process of solidification, of the "craft," becomes more apparent. Here I borrow from Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft - and I highly recommend all people to read it, who are trying to work out what is in your "tool box" and want to engage in the art of creating characters which begin in the writer's imagination and end, and remain, in the readers'. I have now embarked on a new novel. I will go back to my death row story one day, but now my literary juices are coating a different tale. I am very excited about this story and while my time has recently been taken up with the general pressures and demands of life, I hope to dedicate early/late hours to this new story and see where the characters lead, and get themselves into-and out of-the mire.

I will be writing regular blog posts on my progress and will also try to give some insights into my successes/failures. This new novel is a more sophisticated story combining Shakespeare, a corrupt barrister, parallel universes, and the present question concerning certain genres, "is the novel dead?" as Will Self explored in the Guardian, (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/may/02/will-self-novel-dead-literary-fiction). Whilst I have some sympathy with his observations on the cultural and technological pressures which are bearing down upon the printed word, I am staying hopeful that at least the "need" for story-telling and story-listening, in many genres is still symbiotic with our existence.

All genres need to fight back, and instead of Maurice Blanchot's cold weaving, "When I speak [write] death enters the world," when I write, I would like to make sure that, "life enters the world." As Aristotle observed, in the Greek language there are two words for "life," zoē (mere existence, mere life), and bios (political life, what you do in the polis). But I quite like the Mandarin word shēngming 生命 which identifies that within life there is a "vital force" a sense of an activity, needing to continue. It is similar to Nietzsche's process of "life as continuance." So I will strive to have a "vital force" in my writing, and will endeavor to write life into the world.



[Photographs taken on holiday in Lanzarote, (c) Jon Yorke]

Friday 2 May 2014

Poem: Monopoly of Interpretation

Death sentences
push law
to its
exhaustive limit.

Innocence is a reverent
shadow.
Consequence of the ratio decidendi.
No more.
No less.

Laugh with the
little-nippers.