Marie Marshall

Author. Poet. Editor.

Category: poetry

Poetry about morning, afternoon, evening, and just before midnight…

1There’s an excellent poetry enterprise, over in the USA, called PoCo Publications. It’s the child of poets Mary Boren and Toni Christman, and one of the projects it supports is the Poets Collective, having now published two anthologies of work by contributing poets. Mary and Toni were gracious enough to invite me to contribute to their most recent anthology – Collect the Day – in which we deal, metaphorically and literally, with the subjects at the head of this item, four times of day. Thirty-one poets have their work featured in the book, and I have eight poems in there, including four extracts from my A dem●n’s diary series, all unpublished elsewhere, all therefore entirely new to you!

The collection is available via Amazon UK of course, and Amazon USA, but you might like to consider buying direct from the publisher.

So, what has my demn been up to, in the pages of Collect the Day? Well, morning finds him musing on the craft and artistry of demn-kind needed to produce petty annoyances. Afternoon finds one maverick demn from amongst the army of Pandemnium settling down for a picnic. Evening comes, and his is in his favourite Italian restaurant. Just before midnight and he’s eating again – fish and chips from paper – as he watches young women stagger home on their high heels. I think you want to know more. I think you want to read the book. I think you’ll enjoy it.

Veronica’s Rosary

veronica-francoVisit Poetry Life & Times to read ‘Veronica’s Rosary’, a new poem by myself.

The Summer 2015 Showcase at ‘the zen space’ is now published.

cs1Haiku, haiga, short bursts of poetry, startlingly immediate artwork – these are things I try to incorporate in the quarterly e-zine the zen space. How I come to be editing and publishing this e-zine is an old, old story, but it has something to do with a run-in I had with the editor of a similar enterprise. I, being an arrogant wee beggar, decided I could do better. Well, I don’t know if I’ve actually ‘done better’, but at least I’ve ‘done’.

The current Showcase is number 16, which means – hey! – it has been running now for four years. It contains words, full of colour, from various poets, and also the artwork of Claudia Schoenfeld, an artists whose eye-on-the-world I love.

I would like my readers here to patronise the zen space. It’s free-of-charge, and the latest Showcase can be found here. You might like to look through the previous Showcases too. It’s easy to keep up with what’s happening by following the (front page) blog.

There are plans and ideas bubbling under for the next couple of Showcases, so keep an eye open.

M.

Thunderclap, Intertwangle, and Wotan.

ccapuanowsdI share a literary agent and a publisher with English novelist Carmen Capuano, whose YA novel Split Decision will be launched in a week’s time on the 4th of July. Our publisher – admittedly not one of the heavyweights – is utilising the ‘Thunderclap’ web application to promote the launch. If this promotion is successful, then they will use it for future book launches, including those of any book(s) of mine they may publish. This means I have a vested interest in seeing that their current campaign on behalf of Carmen is a success.

In order for it to work, we need one hundred people to support it. Yes – one hundred, and in less than a week! This means that we need to drum up people who are prepared to publicise it on Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr. It only takes a click or two. Please go here and read about this campaign.

Thanks in advance for your support.
__________

In yesterday’s PM, BBC Radio 4’s late-afternoon current affairs programme, there was a light-hearted item about the use of the word ‘intertwangled’ by (I think) management consultant Peter York during a radio interview. According to a representative from the Oxford English Dictionary, the word isn’t in the current OED, but, she said, it is a word by virtue of someone’s having used it. There was even a possible earlier coining. PM’s presenter invited listeners to bring the word into currency, the first line of attack being Twitter #intertwangled.

I love new words, inventive language, and so on, so I have jumped on the band-wagon by using it, in a poetic context, in one of my series of dem●n’s diaries. All in good fun. So there’s another campaign you can get behind!
__________

Wotan 1The other day I found, to my delight, that someone had loaded the whole of the Jahrhundertring onto YouTube. The Jahrhundertring was the production of Richard Wagner’s four-opera cycle, Der Ring des Nibelungen, that was staged to mark the centenary of the Bayreuth Festival. This production, staged between 1976 and 1980 was marked firstly by the conductor’s baton being in the hands of probably the greatest modernist composer of the 20c, Pierre Boulez, and secondly by the stage direction being by Patrice Chéreau. Together they managed to realise George Bernard Shaw’s socialist analysis of the cycle, lifting the story almost totally out of Nordic/Germanic mythology and placing it in the 18c and 19c development of the Industrial Revolution. This might seem a fanciful idea, but, if you have the patience to watch the four operas, collected from the 1979 and 1980 stagings, and to absorb the concept, it works, and in fact becomes difficult to fault.

The humanising of the characters reminds us that the supernatural beings of Germanic mythology were, in many ways, the personification of human traits and emotions – courage and cowardice, love and anger, honesty and deceit, triumph and tragedy – but magnified far beyond the human range. Sir Donald McIntyre’s Wotan is a magnificent, tragic figure; if gods are more powerful than mortals, and their traits greater, then equally the contracts that bind them are more constraining. Wotan is bound by the agreements he has made, and each attempt he makes to find a way round them is doomed.

Wotan 2We first see Wotan amongst the other gods, gorgeously clad in 18c finery, in Das Rheingold. Valhalla having been secured and occupied, in Die Wallküre he has taken on the appearance of a bourgeois, 19c banker, frustrated in his scheming by his wife, the goddess Fricka (Hanna Schwarz) who is a picture of uxorial respectability. By the time of Siegfried, Wotan has become ‘Der Wanderer’, a rootless ranger of the world, limited by choice or by fate in how far he can intervene, and his clothes are a nondescript brown. He is still an imposing figure, but his clothes seem no longer to fit well, and he has already discarded the band that hid his empty eye-socket, reminding us that, for godlike power, paying a price is more than a mortal would endure. In my opinion, Richard Wagner would have considered McIntyre as the man he wrote the role for.

I said that the production was ‘difficult to fault’. In fact, one scene in Die Wallküre always fails to convince me, and that is at the beginning of Act III, where the Valkyries are lugging dead heroes’ bodies around like so many sacks of coal. However, the culmination of Act III also contains the farewell scene between Wotan and Brünnhilde (Gwyneth Jones), which is an almost unbearably emotional depiction of the irrevocable breaking of a father/daughter bond. It is the stuff of pure tragedy, and I love it.

Sieglinde SiegmundOther singers deserve recognition in their roles – in fact they all do, but I am going to single some out. Firstly Peter Hofmann and Jeannine Altmeyer as the incestuous lovers Siegmund and Sieglinde are not only brilliant singers, but bring physical beauty to the roles. They even manage to look like twins. Perfect casting.

Not least of all Heinz Zednik, who steals the show in Das Rheingold as the cynical demi-god Loge, his 18c costume, a modest black contrast to the shimmer of the gods’ adornment, covering a slightly deformed shoulder, the lace of his shirt-front and cuffs shabby and loose. He also took the role of the hapless, shambling Mime in Siegfried, and managed to wring pity from the viewer, under the bullying of the hero-tenor Siegfried (Manfred Jung).

LogeWhen, at the end of Götterdämmerung, the age of gods, giants, dragons, heroes, and dwarves perishes and Valhalla burns, the front of the stage is full of crouching figures, dressed in grey. They are cowering in awe, their backs to us. Suddenly, as the flames die and only smoke remains where once Valhalla stood, one figure – a young girl dressed in white – emerges from the middle of them, standing and turning to face us. Gradually, more and more of the nameless mortals stand and face us. It is a powerful moment, the culmination of the cycle, bringing the message that the age of ordinary humanity has come into being – no more meddling gods, scheming gnomes, doomed races of heroes – we are on our own, and had better face forward.

end

This is, of course, not the latest production of the Der Ring des Nibelungen. It is already thirty-five years old. But it is a milestone performance, and the fact that modern technology has made it accessible (whether legitimately or not) means an opportunity for the experience of a lifetime. Watching this cycle of four long operas, the shortest lasting two-and-a-half hours, can be an endurance test. But to my mind it is well worth it.
__________

By the way, it is often remarked upon that Wagner was the favourite composer of one A Hitler. So what? If Hitler ever truly ‘got’ Wagner, then I’m a flying Dutchwoman!

Mr. Coelacanth considers Uppsala

Uppsala

Uppsala, broad-axed, bearded, Nordic kings
take thrones of state, mead and ale flow
from foamed hartshorns, suns sear a midnight sky,
or so it goes in my idle dreams.

Behind the harbour wall at Norrtalje, bobbing in ripples,
the finn-sold, fin-sailed, flying-fish galleys nod,
talk in the undertones of the halyards’ slap on masts,
of the Baltic swells they tacked and snake-hulled
a year ago as they rounded Åland lodestone-bound
for Riga, the amber city, and for the broad rivers of Rus
where their berserkers leapt ashore to found kingdoms
to the glory of Uppsala.

Here in Uppsala every fourth man is mailed,
every fourth woman is green-gowned,
gold-kirtled with runes, every corner rings
with the sound of lur, of stråkharpa, of fele, and of psaltery,
wheat-shirted children run the blond street
singing the Trettondagsmarchen, begging for bezants.
Here sits their solemn All-Thing, to decide the right
to barley and to wives, to monopolies in akkavit,
to axe and holm, to dour theology, to clinker-hulls,
to the wearing of fox-fur and elk-hide, to the franchise
of the Saami of Laponia, to red-gold, to weaving,
to patterns in knitted wool, to the bourns of charity,
to the meanings of stage-plays, to the enmity of peoples,
to the grey of suits and ties, to the served time of doctors.

Mr Coelacanth 1

And in the bleak, birched, lake-banded hinterland
dour detectives rake for bones, wooden houses
sting the air with pine-resin, the fishbone arrowheads
that hunters use are traded in the market-villages
for barter-goods to change for Uppsala silver –
the beaten silver of the holy plates hidden
in the reliquaries of sitka-spired churches.
Across the sea marshes and inlets comes the mist,
the breath of the great Dragon of the Baltic,
cold monster that tells of ice, migrating bears,
and the clangour of strange, brazen bells.
She reminds the burghers of Uppsala
that the balance of their simmer-dim is
the death-in-life of winter night, the sightless days
chased by old, lancing stars and northern lights.

The stride of beard-brave champions on pitching boards
or flagged thoroughfare, the ringing fall of boots,
the wending of men who measure time in leagues travelled,
all these come to Uppsala in the end; all the salt-fish
come here by net, by lure, or of their own seeking,
all the following, hungry glutton-seals and seagulls,
all the scuttling crabs too; every adventuring clan
of Lett, of Rus, of Tatar, and of Gael gravitate to kneel
by Queen Uppsala, each chieftain swearing by his pagan-ness
to be her man-at-weapons, each chieftain’s daughter
to be her maid-at-linen, each thrall to be hers
to use as she will. Each oarsman dedicates his blisters,
and the trip-trap of horses from the longship’s slender gangway,
to the quays and godowns on the Fyris-side,
over cobbles, to the smooth mountain-stone
of the chateau-courtyard, sounds for the Queen.

Mr Coelacanth 2

Ah, Uppsala, a Queen to whom bow lesser
and bend the knee – Osthammar, Hallstavik, Nacka,
Vaasa, Turku, Mariehamn, humble embassies –
your scepter and your bow, your altars to the Æsir
and to the Lutheran God, your awesome Majesty,
how happy must your burghers be in their guilds
and free assemblies, their crafts and churches,
their marching bands, their fire-watches,
their coteries and snug brains-trusts!

I am not a Finn, says Mr Coelacanth to himself.
Otherwise I would hale a dragon-boat through
the fogbanks of Dogger and trace the fractal fjords
to my heart’s content
. And he settles back, shutters his eyes,
and wanders the dreaming, cobbled, castled, long-halled,
long, hauled, old-strawed, old-strewn alleys of Uppsala,
his sense of geography untainted by the truth.

He is unaware of the halo-flight of bismuth beetles
japanning around his head – so many spies
looking for a landing-place.

__________

From I am not a fish

© 2013 Marie Marshall

And while we’re on about Jane Austen…

db1

Mr Collins is my name

Mr Collins is my name,
I’m a man of modest fame,
Just a member of the clergy – in the Anglican Liturgy –
And I’m really not to blame,
For enrichment’s not my aim,
And if Longbourn I inherit – ‘twill be Providence, not merit –
I’ll bow to it, all the same!

Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
How I always will defer –
Lady Catherine de Bourgh!

Oh my patroness is great
In her wealth and her estate,
And I’m grateful for her giving me a satisfactory living –
Though I feel the need, of late,
Of a helpmeet and a mate,
But you cannot say I cozen the fair daughters of my cousin
I would be a base ingrate!

Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
Ah, I owe it all to her –
Lady Catherine de Bourgh!

Sweet Elizabeth (or Jane*)
Can a clergyman attain
Such a pinnacle in marriage. Oh, a man of humble carriage
Might a celibate remain,
And renounce all thought of gain.
But such piety I’m shedding to pursue a modest wedding
(Better marry than abstain!)

Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
I, with admiration, purr –
Lady Catherine de Bourgh!

Now sweet Charlotte has my heart
(She’s the daughter of a ‘Bart’)**
And she thinks it is no larceny to wed a humble parson,
We will ride in my dogcart
From our nuptials, and start
Our conjugal bliss together – richer, poorer, blind to weather –
As the good Lord doth impart…

Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh,
I, a moon around thee, whirr –
Lady Catherine de Bourgh!

(*Yes, I know. I claim artistic license at that point. **And that one.)

A call for submissions for the Summer 2015 Showcase at ‘the zen space’

Fukuda_Suiko-No_Series-Peony_and_Bee-00034592-030708-F12a bee passes by
weighed with the gold of flowers
this buzzing morning

The Summer 2015 Showcase at the zen space is due to be published on the 1st of July. I’m opening it to submissions this time, rather than sending out invitations, and I’m looking for ‘buzz poetry’ – that’s my name for any haiku or short form of words that is in-the-moment, of-the-moment, expressive, thought-provoking, emotion-evoking, or just zen-cool.

I would like to hear from new contributors, though old friends are welcome too. Just visit the site, click on the ‘Submission’ tab, find the editorial email address, and send me something. It doesn’t have to be on any particular theme, so surprise me with your brilliance…

MM.

A Wave of Scottish Monarchs

David I, King of Scots

I wrote this piece of nonsense doggerel in 2010 especially for Visit Scotland (formerly the Scottish Tourist Board). I have no idea whether they ever used it at all. I had a mind to do it when I recalled the famous old jingle that listed the Kings and Queens of England. It began in 1066 with

Willie, Willie, Harry, Ste,
Harry, Dick, John, Harry 3

and continued till the end of the 19c with

Willie and Mary, Anna Gloria,
Four Georges, Willie, and Victoria.

Well, we had nothing like it for the Kings and Queens of Scots, so I just piled in. It’s all in fun, so enjoy!

© 2010 Marie Marshall

© 2010 Marie Marshall

In case you’re wondering…

It must seem to my regular readers that nothing much happens in my literary life. I have no whistle-stop tours of signings and readings, no local radio appearances and so on to report. However, I’m far from inactive, and the notion that nothing happens couldn’t be further from the truth. So what is happening?

writing-clipart-1Well, firstly I am writing a new novel, or rather one that I had had some notes for a while ago but had shelved while I finished From My Cold, Undead Hand and the sequel KWIREBOY vs VAMPIRE. It would be difficult to say at this stage what it is ‘about’, because I am trying to walk a tightrope between experimenting with form and style and producing something that is readable. For a while now I have been taking part in discussions, notably with Millie Ho and her blog-followers, about… well… how to write. Millie has some brilliant ideas, and if I take issue with many of them it is merely because they stimulate thought. One topic in particular has been that of working towards an ending, and my concern is that literature has been stuck in a pattern that has lasted for centuries, if not at least a couple of millennia, going back to the concept of ‘catharsis’ in classical Greek drama. What this has meant for fiction is that it has largely resisted major innovation, and that it is alone as an art form in doing so. I have written on this subject before. Fiction, pretending to give us a narrative progression from a beginning to an end, more often than not is driven by that predetermined end in a way that life is not – ‘Destiny does not send us heralds,’ said Oscar Wilde in The Portrait of Dorian Gray, and neither should the writer of fiction be obliged to function as some kind of prescient, wiser than the rest of us. As readers we ought to be able to cope with fiction that hands us a slice of life to look at, and the knowledge that life continues after that slice is finished.

In our discussions we have been looking at the problem of how to give a novel ‘closure’ – giving the readers the sense of its completeness – without necessarily having a structural ‘resolution’ driven by the dictated need for catharsis.

For my current novel project (working title The Deptford Bear) therefore, I have a probable direction of narrative travel rather than a definite ending in view. I can see where the narrative may possibly lead, but I am open to the journey of exploration taking a turn and leading instead to somewhere unexpected. For this reason, and because it’s the way I actually enjoy writing, I haven’t been plodding, chapter-by-chapter, from the beginning. I have been writing ‘episodes’ in an almost random order, which I will sew together later. I have been writing from inside the head of the protagonist, hopping from happening to colourful happening in her life. An added challenge is that the whole of her story is being told to a third party – a Scotland Yard detective – and there is probably a lot she is holding back, even from the reader. The story has a strong element of ‘detective mystery’, though whether the mystery will be cleared up when the novel closes is another matter. It has elements of ‘steampunk’, being set in a Victorian London where nineteenth-century history is telescoped or concertinaed in on itself, ‘Montgolfier’ balloons traverse the city from mooring-tower to mooring-tower, and messages are passed between police stations by a vast, steam-driven network of ‘Lampson’ tubes. But how much of this is real, and how much is in the imagination of the protagonist is hard to say. She is, apparently, an amnesiac, and has a strange way of relating to the world, and of expressing herself, learned since she lost her memory as a child; she is a clairvoyant who admits to being a mountebank but who might be genuinely psychic; and she may be something much, much darker than that. Her London is peopled not only with thieves and murderers, toffs and paupers, but with hawkers and buskers, with carnival people and mummers, perhaps with monsters and changelings, and is haunted by one sinister, silent figure – the ‘Deptford Bear’ himself, a creature of deep ritual significance. Or is it she who is haunted rather than the city?

Regular readers of the blog section of this web site will know that I have other novel ideas on my shelf, for which I have written sketches. It’ll be The Deptford Bear I’ll be working on for the foreseeable future, and the others will remain on the shelf. I’m up to about 15,000 words so far.

Secondly, work continues on turning my short story Axe into a film or TV script. I have provided some extra narrative material, and a Scottish screenwriter is currently working on it. I have seen his summary of how he would like to tackle the dramatisation, and the first draft of the opening, and it is developing in quite an exciting way. To go back to the matter of how to end a piece of fiction, those of you who have read the short story will notice that it did not ‘resolve’ in any conventional way; the extra narrative material I have given, along with the creative input of the screenwriter himself, perhaps a little more of a conventional resolution. Nevertheless, this is an exciting project and something totally new for me.

Thirdly, other stuff. You will no doubt remember that my short story Voices was amongst the winners at the Winter Words festival a few months ago. Well, as often happens, that win gave me a boost, and I have already written two further macabre short stories, and sketched out a third, which will fit well as entries for next year’s competition, and the year after that… and the year after that. Also I’m preparing some new poetry for a forthcoming anthology.

So, although my blog section here isn’t full of a mad social whirl, inactive I am not. I’ll keep you all posted.

More Veronica Franco

Click here, or click the image below, to be taken to Sappho’s Torque, the blog of Angélique Jamail, who this month is featuring a different poet every day. This particular link will take you to a brand new poem of mine, not published anywhere else, from my ‘Veronica Franco’ series.

VeronicaFranco