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NaNoWriMo: the aftermath

So, I set out last month to write a 50,000 word novel. 59 thousand other people had the same idea, and 9,700 of them succeeded in their quest. I was one of the many who did not, managing only 12,000 words in the first couple of weeks before real life (and work) intervened.

I've no idea what I feel about the quality of my product. I think the prose style is adequate, and won't need too much work to turn into something reasonable. One person commented that the obligatory sex scene was "one of the funniest things I've read in a long time" which is, I suppose, something.

12,000 words isn't a bad start, and I intend to continue writing the novel when I get the chance. To save people the chore of looking back through this blog to read the work to date, I've posted the lot onto my website (edit: now removed). It will also act as a reminder to me that the next time someone casually mentions: "Fancy doing NaNo this year?" I have to say Never Again!

Trafalgar Week

We met on Saturday, the red cross
on your sleeves creased, shimmered
from the heat of walking the crowds.
The square was littered with loungers,
their rainbow flags hoisted
across bare shoulders; lagers
and wine bottles shared, emptied
with strangers well met; the stage
beside the column thumping
messages of pride, liberty,
love and love action. We kissed
amid the pigeons, man to man.

Wednesday was a work day, a day
of sunshine and quiet hope. A screen
hung between the lions, its crowds
a fashion of flags and cheer, a job
well done. This collective worship
was competitive, a unity of mouths
open to hear news from Asia; our team
competing for the greatest prize
and when the vote came through
their arms erupted like pigeons
and I, too, watching on my office
monitor, hugged colleagues in joy.

Today I walk through the litter
of yesterday's party, just twelve
crowded hours gone. Some tourists
are lost in the space beneath
the column; a child climbs a lion.
Sirens reek through the air, scare
pigeons into cooing clouds. The Arch,
The Mall, the Parade: deserted. I meet
colleagues in my office, their relief
feeding my curiosity - what's happened?
And there on the screen, a red bus
to Hackney busted in seams and blood.

Corruption

It's a dirty word, isn't it. Lots of baggage with that word. But what, exactly, does the word "corruption" mean?

The best classification of corruption I can find on the web is on the ACID Anti-Corruption Internet Database. What this page demonstrates more than anything is the paucity of the English language in the hands of tabloid headline editors: the range of activities labelled "corruption" is very wide indeed.

Classical corruption, to me, is paying off government officials to get some benefit for yourself, your family and your friends. This is what I think of when people talk about corruption in places like Africa or South America. But you've also got the "corruption" of influence: Italy's corruption seems to be one of influence and networking, as perhaps is England's. If Halliburton are gaining from corrupt practices, is it because they're corrupting Government officials, or because they already have friends in very high places? Is it bottom-up, or top-down corruption?

But why are you wittering on about corruption, Rik, you may be asking. Well, mainly I'm writing this because I'm wondering about corruption in the world of poetry.

Okay, now you've stopped laughing and wiped the tears away from your eyes, I'll elaborate.

In the world of poetry there is not much money to be made. Superstars are far and few between. There is in America, and increasingly in the UK, a poetry business: people can make a living from writing, publishing, performing, speaking about and teaching poetry. For some the living can be quite comfortable and, no doubt, glamourous in its own way.

For the world of poets and poetry is small nowadays, and very inward-looking. The internet has helped to make this world in some ways smaller and more transparent. And as the mists of secrecy clear it becomes even more obvious that there is a hierarchy of poets, a pyramid with The Few at the top and The Many at the bottom.

And where you find a human hierarchy, you'll also find some form of corruption. Because every single one of The Many wants to become one of The Few. Human nature: it's a bugger!

Now I've not yet heard of any cases of bottom-up corruption. Given the limited sales of poetry books, and thus the limited returns for publishers and poets alike, there seems to me little danger of finding a payola scandal trotting across the heathlands of the muse.

But top-down corruption - aah, that's different. Because of the increasing interconnectedness of the priests and victims climbing the slopes of the poetry pyramid, when does friendship become influence, and when does influence become corruption? How black are the hearts offered up to Chac?

Some people claim to have answers, or at least opinions. The folks at Foetry are convinced it starts early, as soon as someone gets involved in any form of poetry contest or contract where the various parties may have some connection between each other. I have to disagree with this view: people are people, not legal cyphers or automatons. Stupid naivity is not a survival trait in my genetic makeup so I won't be joining the Foetry crowd in baying for blood at the slightest hint of alleged impropriety.

But I also feel uneasy travelling too far towards the other end of the argument - a current discussion thread at the Eratosphere workshop makes for some distinctly queasy reading about the role that patronage could and should play in today's poetry pyramid.

I think my last thought in this post is quite a sad one. Because after all this googling and thinking and writing about corruption, I'm left wondering: what happens to all the good poems?

Rankings

The RikVerse is currently ranked at No. 949 in the [ahem] Books > Subjects > PoetryDrama&Criticism > Poetry > General category section of amazon.co.uk, and at 123,788 in the general rankings. I have no idea how good, bad or indifferent this performance is. Do they rank sales daily? Weekly? Annually? Does this mean I've shifted 1 copy of the book? 10? 20? I'll find out sometime after 5 December when lulu.com will post details of monthly sales and royalties for me to access. But I'm curious now!

Across the pond, amazon.com reports that the books sales ranking is "none". Fine. Be like that! Barnes&Noble don't even seem to record sales rankings; neither do WH Smith. Oh well - back to making snowflakes.

TS Eliot Lecture 2005

George Szirtes gave the annual TS Eliot lecture last Tuesday at the Royal Festival Hall. Unlike Harry, I did not attend, even though this lecture has proved to be controversial in the past - witness the firestorm Don Patterson's 2004 lecture caused across the heathlands of the muse.

To be frank, George's lecture makes a lot more sense to me than Don's ever did. He presents us with a well developed metaphor for reading, writing and enjoying poetry - the idea of the skater dancing across a frozen lake - backed up by extracts of poems to colour the various points he makes. I found myself nodding often as I read the transcript of the lecture. I also found myself wishing I could write as well as George!

It's difficult to choose a chunk of the lecture to highlight here. This one, on the development of a poem, was particularly mind-sticking:

The intention of the poet is to write the best possible poem starting out with some as yet incoherent perception relating to an experience or set of experiences. The poet is a person who has realized that language is not a tool but a medium: and, what is more, assumes - has to assume - that the instinctive reader knows this as well as he does. The poem explores the medium by executing a kind of dance across it. It sets out across the ice and begins to cut light patterns in it, following some trainable instinct about the direction and way of moving, the notion of meaning arising out of the motion of the dance as a series of improvisations on the pattern. These patterns present the poet with a number of apparently arbitrary possibilities at any one time. But that is the very nature of language: it is what language continually does.

Typically, this section seems to contradict part of Don's lecture, on the purpose of a poem, which I did agree with:

I've said this so many times it's beginning to sound a bit self-satisfied - but a poem is just a little machine for remembering itself. Whatever other function a rhyme, a metre, an image, a rhetorical trope, a brilliant qualifier or stanza-break might perform, half of it is simply mnemonic. A poem makes a fetish of its memorability. It does this, because the one unique thing about our art is that it can carried in your head in its original state, intact and perfect. We merely recall a string quartet or a film or a painting, actually, at a neurological level we're only remembering a memory of it; but our memory of the poem is the poem. A poet exploits this fact, and tries to burn their poems into your mind, and mess with your perception.

Like a crow, I'm torn between which of the two shiny coins to cherish more. Maybe it's because deep down inside of me I'm sure they're both making the same point about why poems are drafted, but maybe where Don sees the biological reality of a poem on a reader George senses that similar processes are happening to the poet as the poem takes shape - but can't quite bring himself to name it.

Anyways, both lectures are enjoyable reads. Also very enjoyable is the film Mrs Henderson Presents, which I saw at the Stratford Picture House. A very nice social commentary based on historical events, well filmed and well acted, with moments of laughter, grief and that funny feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you've eaten the ice cream too fast - all wityhin the space of a few minutes.

Which in turn was almost as enjoyable as the very nice things Scavella says about my poetry on her blog! The feeling is mutual, of course - as people will be able to judge for themselves as soon as Scavella finalises and publishes her Lily series of poems!

The RikVerse is now available at ...

www.barnesandnoble.com - $12.00, or $10.80 to members.

Borders (in the US), Books etc and Waterstones (both in the UK), which are all teamed up with the amazon online bookstore.

Amazon.co.uk itself, which was quoting a delivery time of 5-6 weeks yesterday, is now claiming delivery within 2 weeks. They've also upped their stock to 5 copies (one used?!?), which makes no sense to me given the book is POD and the delivery time is still so long. Amazon.com still claim they can turn their order round in 24 hours and lulu.com will deliver the book to your door within a week of ordering it.

WH Smith (UK) - £5.65 (+ 5 WH Smith clubcard points), this time with a 2-4 week delivery window. I have no idea if this site is also affiliated with amazon.co.uk, but they don't show the cover shot yet.

Blackwell (UK) - are selling the book at £7.65, delivered within 3-9 days. They admit they have no copies in stock, but the cost of sourcing it is included in the quoted price.

Ottakar's (UK) - list the book at £5.65 though note the price is subject to change - you may need to order it from their brickwork bookshops as I can't see an online ordering facility on their website.

Remember the p&p bit - buy from the wrong place and the cost of the buying the book could double!

Who is Rik (Part 2)?

Well, according to Google, there's only one Rik Roots. Which is nice.

But when I search on the name my mother gave me I get the following hits.

I was born 23 Jul 1847 in Wilmington (Kent), died 4 Jan 1921 in Ipswich (Queensland) and married to Sarah Elizabeth Marsh.

I was born somewhere around 1552, after which I had a partnership with "Alice" and apparently managed to have 5 children (3 sons and 2 daughters) around 1578 in Tonbridge, Kent.

I was in the Class of 66 in Lake Mills, Wisconsin. I think I might be a member of the American Association for Functional Orthodontics.

I was killed after being caught in a mine tunnel collapse at Coen, Queensland on 25 September 1897 - apparently I was a policeman.

It seems that I attended the Hardtner Public School in Hardtner, Kansas as a senior, possibly in 1948.

Back in Kent, I am buried in a church called Seal. My headstone reads: Richard ROOTS died 19 November 1819 aged 71 years. Mary Roots his wife died 16 July 1832 aged 88 years.

12 years before (in 1820) I had been committed to the Chelmsford House of Correction, specifically for the crime of wandering abroad and begging.

The 1841 census records me being a carpenter and living with Mary in Fords Green. This must be a different me, and a different Mary, to the Richard and Mary above.

I was somehow involved in the settlement of New England before 1692, though I might not have been there.

And finally, on 7 December 1826 I gave evidence in the trial of John Cooper, William Newland, Henry Bateman Jenkins and Joseph John Jenkins, charged with theft and receiving stolen goods: I am an officer of St. Mary-le-bone; I went with Mr. Watts to Cooper's house - he lived there with his father - I found there some books, pamphlets, and fifteen plates, which Mr. Watts claimed - Cooper's sister was in Mr. Watts' service. Cooper (aged 16) and Newland (19) were found guilty and transported for 7 years. The others were found not guilty.

Who is Rik?

This is me: "Loner, more interested in intellectual pursuits than relationships or family, not very altruistic, not very complimentary, would rather be friendless than jobless, observer, values solitude, perfectionist, detached, private, not much fun, hidden, skeptical, does not tend to like most people, socially uncomfortable, not physically affectionate, unhappy, does not talk about feelings, hard to impress, analytical, likes esoteric things, tends to be pessimistic, not spontaneous, prone to discontentment, guarded, does not think they are weird but others do, responsible, can be insensitive or ambivalent to the misfortunes of others, orderly, clean, organized, familiar with darkside, tends not to value organized religion, suspicious of others, can be lonely, rarely shows anger, punctual, finisher, prepared"

This is also me: "In many cases INTjs are slim. Their stomach is usually placed ahead of the chest giving them their characteristic posture. Their gait is somewhat unsure, wavering slightly. Sometimes it seems like they are not sure where they are going. This becomes more obvious in moments of excitement. Their clothes are not usually very striking. INTjs do not like to attract excessive attention to themselves and most of the time they stick to simple clothes, often wearing the same style and composition for a long time"

This is me, too: "INTJs are the most self-confident of all types, having "self-power" awareness. Found in about 1 percent of the general population, the INTJs live in an introspective reality, focusing on possibilities, using thinking in the form of empirical logic, and preferring that events and people serve some positive use. Decisions come naturally to INTJs' once a decision is made, INTJs are at rest. INTJs look to the future rather than the past, and a word which captures the essence of INTJs is builder-a builder of systems and the applier of theoretical models. To INTJs authority based on position, rank, title, or publication has absolutely no force. This type is not likely to succumb to the magic of slogans, watchwords, or shibboleths. If an idea or position makes sense to an INTJ, it will be adopted, if it doesn't, it won't, regardless of who took the position or generated the idea. As with the INTP, authority per se does not impress the INTJ. INTJs do, however, tend to conform to rules if they are useful, not because they believe in them, or because they make sense, but because of their unique view of reality. They are the supreme pragmatists, who see reality as something which is quite arbitrary and made up."

Are you building up a mental picture of me yet?

Well, hold your horses because, strangely enough, this is me: "Librans are among the most civilized of the twelve zodiacal characters and are often good looking. They have elegance, charm and good taste, are naturally kind, very gentle, and lovers of beauty, harmony (both in music and social living) and the pleasures that these bring. They have good critical faculty and are able to stand back and look impartially at matters which call for an impartial judgment to be made on them. But they do not tolerate argument from anyone who challenges their opinions, for once they have reached a conclusion, its truth seems to them self-evident; and among their faults is an impatience of criticism and a greed for approval. But their characters are on the whole balanced, diplomatic and even tempered. Librans are sensitive to the needs of others and have the gift, sometimes to an almost psychic extent, of understanding the emotional needs of their companions and meeting them with their own innate optimism - they are the kind of people of whom it is said, "They always make you feel better for having been with them." They are very social human beings. They loathe cruelty, viciousness and vulgarity and detest conflict between people, so they do their best to cooperate and compromise with everyone around them, and their ideal for their own circle and for society as a whole is unity."

And here's me again: "The key to the Dragon personality is that Dragons are the free spirits of the Zodiac. Conformation is a Dragon's curse. Rules and regulations are made for other people. Restrictions blow out the creative spark that is ready to flame into life. Dragons must be free and uninhibited. The Dragon is a beautiful creature, colorful and flamboyant. An extroverted bundle of energy, gifted and utterly irrepressible, everything Dragons do is on a grand scale - big ideas, ornate gestures, extreme ambitions. However, this behavior is natural and isn't meant for show. Because they are confident, fearless in the face of challenge, they are almost inevitably successful. Dragons usually make it to the top. However, Dragon people be aware of their natures. Too much enthusiasm can leave them tired and unfulfilled. Even though they are willing to aid when necessary, their pride can often impede them from accepting the same kind of help from others. Dragons' generous personalities give them the ability to attract friends, but they can be rather solitary people at heart. A Dragon's self-sufficiency can mean that he or she has no need for close bonds with other people." And: "Wood has a modifying influence and brings creativity to this sign. Questioning and liberal, Wood Dragons enjoy talking about original ideas and are open to other points of view. They are innovative, imaginative practical and appreciate art in each of its forms. Generally less pretentious than other Dragons, Wood Dragons have an ability to get along with other people. They have the essentials to build a prosperous and happy life for themselves. Still, Wood Dragons are outspoken and at times a bit pushy to quell everyone, even in the most friendly quarrel."

It's all true. I do take pride in my glossy scales.

Dymchurch-under-the-Wall

I am an economic migrant. I've been living in London since December 1988 - just a few weeks shy of 17 years. But for the first 24 years of my life I lived in a little village called Dymchurch.

Nice, you may be thinking! And nice it was too: 10,000 people packed in along 3 miles of coastline; countryside on the one side and a beach to die for on the other. And wind. Lots and lots and lots of wind. Dymchurch lies on the edge of the Romney Marshes in Kent - you'll already be aware of this if you've browsed some of my poetry. The Marshes don't share the local English climate mainly because they're flat and jut out into the English Channel. Instead we got a sort of continental climate, hot and sticky in the summer and cold and wet in the winter. And windy.

In fact some power generating company has just got planning permission to build a huge wind farm on the Marshes. They're going to need good capacitors, because they'll be generating power 360 days a year! I think the wind farm will nicely complement the nuclear power stations out at Dungeness (on the very tip of the Marshes). But lots of people are moaning because they say it'll destroy the beauty of the place and kill birds. Huh? It's Dungeness, for eff's sake! This is the place where Derek Jarman ran away to build his poxy garden (I let my dog shit in DJ's garden, once). And anyway, more birds will be killed by airplanes when Lydd Airport gets planning permission to expand (heh - another saga that's been going on for 40-odd years). And most of the seagulls have already abandoned the seaside for landfill sites.

Which brings me on to the point of this post. There are a few poems around that mention the Romney Marshes (though I think I'm the only person who's ever felt a need to write poems about Dymchurch). One in particular I've grown to loathe:

A Major Road for Romney Marsh
by U. A. Fanthorpe

It is a kingdom, a continent.
Nowhere is like it.
(Ripe for development)

It is salt, solitude, strangeness.
It is ditches, and windcurled sky.
It is sky over sky after sky.

(It wants hard shoulders, Happy Eaters,
Heavy breathing of HGVs)

It is obstinate hermit trees.
It is small, truculent churches
Huddling under the gale force.

(It wants WCs, Kwiksaves,
Artics, Ind Ests, Jnctns)

It is the Military Canal
Minding its peaceable business,
Between the Levels and the Marsh.

(It wants investing in roads,
Sgns syng T'DEN, F'STONE, C'BURY)

It is itself, and different.

(Nt fr lng. Nt fr lng.)

And to make this a fair use of U's copyrighted work, I'll comment on it by saying that:

1) this is a poem by a person who has only ever visited the Marshes, signposted (heh) for instance in her use of the singular "Marsh" - Romney Marsh is just a small bit of the Romney Marshes;

2) if she had done her homework the author would have found out that there is already a major road crossing the Romney Marshes - it's called the A259 South Coast Road and it is a very busy road with lots of heavy goods vehicles trundling to and from the Channel Ports;

3) local people in Dymchurch and other villages bisected by the A259 have been campaigning for bypasses for close on 90 years;

4) you wouldn't be so eager to dismiss the call for upgrading the road with bypasses if some of your friends and aquaintances had been killed or maimed on it; and

5) people who want to consign other people into quaint rustic prisons by denying them the right to the fruits of modern development just need to be laughed at. Loudly. Or maybe taken outside and slapped.

Oh yes, and the poem has no resonance whatsoever for a person who was born and raised on the Romney Marshes. "Truculent churches"? Ye Gods and little fishes! Postcard poetry tied to political rant. And they teach this in schools?

There's more to Dymchurch and the Romney Marshes than this poem, Ms Fanthorpe. I, for one, should know.