No More Drama

Hay 25

2012-04-06T12:07:00.000+01:00

So Hay comes around again. This year, the festival celebrates an incredible 25 years. I'll be there this June, in conversation with poet Philip Gross (8 June), comedienne Helen Lederer (9 June) and travel writer John Harrison (10 June). I do hope you can join us. You can take a look at the programme here.

Devolved Voices - a new project

2012-04-05T11:13:00.001+01:00

I am delighted to announce that Professor Peter Barry, distinguished academic based at Aberystwyth University, has been awarded a major research grant from the prestigious Leverhulme Trust. Professor Barry has been awarded the grant to lead the three-year 'Devolved Voices' project. The project begins in September of this year, and I am thrilled to be joining Professor Barry on the team, alongside the wonderfully acute critic and scholar Dr Matthew Jarvis.

Devolved Voices will focus on the English-language poetic output from Wales since 1997 – a period that has seen many exciting new voices emerge and, notably, a flowering of powerful and various poetry from women. The project will result in several books, including a scholarly volume and a book of interviews with poets.

During the life of the project, there will be an exciting and media-rich living narrative of the project on our Devolved Voices website. The website will feature interviews with and readings from poets, together with interviews from notable players on the Welsh poetry scene. The website will be open to all, and we intend that both specialists and readers of poetry in general will find stimulating material. We'll also be on Twitter! All of this will go live later this year.

It's a great honour to receive a Leverhulme research project grant, and we are all enormously grateful to the Trust for its support.

You can read more about the project by taking a look at the press release.

And It's Surely to Their Credit

2012-03-08T10:20:00.003Z

So: Happy International Women's Day.

I've been quiet. But I hope silence equates with substance. I can certainly assure you it equates with industry. Many books are underway – and I'll tell you more about these over coming months. Plus, a very exciting 2013 all round. Some surprising, superb, established names – together with highly accomplished newcomers I'm proud to be introducing.

In the meantime, I want to flag the arrival in the autumn of our new poetry list. We've designed a series of uniform covers in beautiful colours. First up this year are Alan Kellermann and Anna Lewis. Of course, I come with my bias, but here are two excellent new poets. They'll be promoting their books in the autumn/winter/spring 2012/13. Following that, we have poet Jemma King, with her lovely collection, in 2013. A very special group of promising voices.

In more personal news, a new anthology of British poets arrives in the late spring from Cinnamon, Lung Jazz, edited by Todd Swift and Kim Lockwood. It contains work by many poets I admire and whose planetary presence is undeniably a Good Thing. I am in it also, with a paean to Brandon Flowers. And it's all for charity. You can pre-order here.

More soon.

New course at the Poetry School this summer

2012-02-21T19:42:00.002Z

This summer, I'll be leading a new fortnightly course at the very wonderful Poetry School on poetry and the monologue.

We will read classic and contemporary wonders, discuss, share, suggest, create our own beautiful new work – and have much fun along the way. This course is ideal for those seeking to explore imaginative avenues in a friendly and supportive environment.

Booking is now open for this course and many others.

No

2012-02-08T13:49:00.001Z

Oh, rejection. It's hard to take. It's hard to dish. I've had it both ways, and it's not a pretty business on either side of the table. Whether in matters of love, job applications or literature, No hurts. Hell, it even hurts when you're not that invested in the first place.

In permanent marker: No.

Yes, I've known it. I know what it can involve. Starting out, the slips and coffee-stained poems came back by return with an efficiency that bordered on the humorous but for the fact of...

Wine, expletives, tears. That I was risking quite a lot... And bystanders were concerned. For what?

And then, the clock on the wall, the tick, tick which is really, if you think about it, the sound of ice slowly forming in the heart: What the hell do I do now? And: Is it over?

Well, it's no benchmark of quality per se, but if it is over, then the answer is: yes, it is over, for it was probably never on. The real deal will continue. In the face of bewilderment, of dissuasion, of poverty, of being utterly ignored, of great hurts. They want to fail better. We know this, since history can sometimes prove instructive. I should put it frankly. The real deal is randy for the muse – and yet it is more radical still. They suffer, hopelessly – somehow just sitting there, blocked and impotent – from a particularly unfortunate case of erotomania, even when being slapped in the face with a plaice.

Here, Charles Boyle, editor of CB Editions and acclaimed poet and fictioneer himself, talks a little about rejection in a good piece on his admirable blog, pointing out the many faces of No. And the fact that editors are human.

My Brilliant Career

2012-01-26T14:27:00.000Z

A few tips for approaching Parthian with your manuscript here.

Reports

2011-12-08T18:23:00.001Z

2011 commenced with an end. Three happy years over at New Welsh Review. In the trenches during a recession – and, in many ways, having among the very best times of my professional life. It’s rare I’ve left behind anything positive – and when I was relatively fulfilled. But it was an empowering move – and necessary, too. Poems have been written. Some still abide, in the shadows. More importantly, there was all that thinking, that sense of freedom. A beautiful artists’ book – aptly titled Uncertain Territories – came out in March, the product of a collaboration with artist Mary Modeen. It’s a deluxe book, and you can’t buy it on Amazon, alas; Mary and the master printer who worked it up to its extraordinary loveliness are the reasons why it deserves to sell at a premium, rather than the efforts of this humble poet. I've been proud to be a part of some great events. I've continued my quest to become First Great Western's (first ever) Gold Card Holder. (Only a few more years!) I've seen patient, splendid people receive, at last, the acclaim they deserve. Teaching is inspiring, I remember. I've taught some truly talented new and lovely poets – who've reminded me, once again, what it's really all about: magic, romance. And now, close of the year, and I have something I've wanted for a while – a list. We've exciting plans for the years ahead at Parthian. Great times, and I hope you'll come and share them with us. Our final title of this year is out now: Dannie Abse's autobiography Goodbye, Twentieth Century. It's brilliant, moving, hilarious – richly detailing an eventful life in Dannie's stylish prose.

****

My grandmother died. But while it hurt like hell (we were close, so close), one understands the ol’ river that is life. We hear it, we hear it – when we’re not busy ignoring it. And after the grief comes the staggering gratitude for all the luck, the crazy luck of it all. And one can say, ‘It was all gravy, wasn’t it? For us. And all that time.’ But it isn’t always so.

Our friend, Kelly – the wife of my friend John – was an extraordinary person. Firstly, let me tell you now – somewhat shallow of me, I know – that she was a true Irish beauty, a knockout: long dark hair, a wide smile... But she also possessed an interior beauty. Witty, clever, eccentric, steel in her strength. She was genuine loveliness and true grit. And there in her eyes, something deeper again: the record of a pilgrim soul. We met her when she fell in love with John. They enjoyed marvellous interplay. John’s incredible sense of humour was matched in an ideal partner. They adored one another. But Kelly discovered, not long into their marriage, that she had cancer. She approached her illness with great dignity and courage. I remember her – kindly, but very firmly – swatting my emotion when we shared coffee and pastries one day. She had no time for such saccharin. A true fighter, she kept her paws up. But cancer is no respecter of love or value, and, tragically, in July of this year, Kelly lost her battle. The order of things seemed disturbed. It was incredible that someone young and utterly gorgeous and productive and so important to so many could be lost, and lost so ruthlessly. But it happened. I knew Kelly for too short a time. But she made a big impact. Such is the power of the rare person. You rocked, Kelly.

****

Let’s live our lives, friends. And live them well, and full.

Happy Christmas.*

*Signing off until the New Year.

Poetry at the Royal Scottish Academy

2011-11-14T16:01:00.000Z

Any readers based in Edinburgh or Scotland way, the Poetry Beyond Text project is now being exhibited at the Royal Scottish Academy. My contribution to the project is a selection of poems presented in an artists' book, with images from my wonderful, remarkably talented collaborator (and curator of the exhibition), Mary Modeen. Other work features splendid contributions from poets including Robin Robertson, Deryn Rees-Jones and John Burnside. Find out more here.

Work and Days

2011-11-07T16:23:00.004Z

I am delighted to say that I was appointed editor of Parthian at the beginning of this month. I'll be joined by Jon Gower as associate editor. Jon is a noted broadcaster, as well as a superb fictioneer, and I am so pleased to be working with him on what we hope will turn out to be another great chapter in Parthian's ongoing success story.

We are currently welcoming unsolicited submissions. If you're interested in finding out more about what we publish and/or how to submit, please visit the About Us section of the website, take a tour of some of our authors (ranging from Niall Griffiths to Stevie Davies to Rachel Trezise and so many more), and then carefully read our guidelines. Along the way, you might find you want to pick up one of our many award-winning and critically acclaimed titles as a winter warmer.

This blog will, of course, keep going; it always does. But if I am occasionally quiet, please bear with me. I am probably reading a great book. And you know where that can lead.

Sadeness (Part 3)

2011-10-15T12:31:00.005+01:00

I went to see Melancholia last night. What follows contains ample spoilers.

Melancholia is billed as 'a beautiful film about the end of the world'. Its opening sequence admittedly contains some ravishing and manipulative dreamscape tableaux: birds fall in slowmo from a hyperreal sky, electricity courses from the fingertips of hands raised to the universe in offering, a bride floats like Ophelia in a river. Add to that the overture from Tristan and Isolde cranked up to the max, and, for a moment, the disarmed viewer may be fooled into thinking that what will follow will be something of substance and great artistic commitment. But this opener is really nothing more than a money shot, a premature ejaculation – exploiting our tendency to fall for the bait and switch. It's an abuse of the cinematic contract.

'Part 1: Justine' has drawn unfavourable comparisons with Festen. That criticism seems somewhat unfair. Much of the tone appears to me to be borrowed, instead, from the marvellous and underseen Rachel Getting Married. But this latter film, with its intelligent and unstinting exploration of the seething hatred and passion within family life and its study of a personality in crisis, should have been enough to discourage von Trier in his attempts. If, indeed, he has seen it at all. For, unlike most great directors, von Trier seems to me to be anything but a cineaste.

Justine (Dunst) is, on the face of it, as we watch her and her new husband (Alexander Skarsgard) giggle in the back of their limo, an uncomplicated and beautiful bride. In a clunking metaphor for life, their gigantic white limo cannot negotiate the slender and steep incline of the dust road that will take them to their wedding reception at her sister's house. After many comical attempts at manoeuvring, they abandon the car and walk the road. Dunst, appearing bare foot at the venue, is roundly dressed down by her sister Claire (Gainsbourg), an apparent control freak who doesn't even bother to enquire what has happened to the couple. It is the first indication the viewer gets that Dunst is somehow trouble, and apparently a victim of circumstance with whom the viewer, at least, should side.

What follows amounts to perhaps the most boring wedding ever to be committed to any film I've seen. The cliches, and their offensiveness and triteness, come in short order: the loveable, but roguish father (Hurt) and the gimlet-eyed, toxic bitch-mother (Rampling), now divorced and simmering in their bile; the portrait of Claire, whose normalcy is really a cover for her neurosis; the long-suffering brother-in-law, John (Sutherland), who appears to hold everyone in contempt; the sweet little nephew who seems to be the only person Justine can reach out to. Unpleasant speeches are given.

Justine keeps disappearing from the proceedings. First for a cruise around the estate in a golf buggy. Then for a pee on the golf course. (She's sad, sad, sad.) Then for a heart-to-heart with her new husband who shows her a picture of a young apple orchard he's bought for them. (She's sad, sad, sad.) He tells her that when the trees are matured, he'll sit her under them. Maybe he'll build her a swing, too. No wonder she's depressed. 'Let's just wait and see what happens,' she tells him. Smart move. For, perhaps a moment too late, she seems to have realised that the two of them don't appear to belong in the same film. Things roll on. And on. She takes a long bath. She's back to cut the cake. Floating lanterns celebrating the young couple are sent out to the sky. Eventually, Justine's back on the golf course again – it's a magnetic pull for her, clearly. She's followed out by a new recruit to her advertising firm. His pursuit of her is a piece of pointless plotting that is not worth the outlining, save for the fact that it allows the hypocritical von Trier to insult the advertising industry which he has exploited to his great service time and again. Anyhow, back to this recruit. Justine throws him down to the ground. She mounts him and, enthusiastically, the two copulate. Off she goes, back to the house to moon over her onion soup and tell her boss (Stellan Skarsgaard) how much she utterly despises him. Shortly before dawn, her new husband, rather discomforted that Justine is underwhelmed by his apples, tells her he's off. And, just like that, the longest and shortest marriage in modern cinema is over.

Then we're on to 'Part 2: Claire'. (Are you still with me?) Now we see things from Claire's perspective. And mostly we see them from the house's terrace. But they are not much different. Time has elapsed. Justine has had a nervous breakdown. She is deeply depressed. We know this because she's chopped her long locks into a bob, won't bathe and declares that Claire's meatloaf 'tastes like ashes'. A planet is on its way in a fly-by – Melancholia – that has been hiding behind the sun. It's been hiding a long time. Father and son are excited about it. But Claire gets anxious about the planet. Despite her husband's assurances, she wonders whether it might actually collide with earth. Living in a world where there appears to be no TV or Radio, she is forced to look it up online. On a computer that looks rather like an Amstrad. And on a very early internet. While Claire is surfing and quietly freaking out (she stops washing her hair), Justine is perking up considerably. She begins making appearances on the terrace in cut-off jeans and sexy casual tops; she wanders off, naked, in the middle of the night to lie down on some rocks and circle one areola, basking in the blue glow of Melancholia. This is just one of the more tasteless and leering moments dressed up as credibility in the film, which also uses a depressive's resistance to being bathed to score von Trier a lingering shot of Dunst's breasts. Did Dunst think this was art?

The fly-by happens. The earth is still here. Claire's relieved. But watch out! It's behind you! And it's coming back! We discover this in an unintentionally laugh-out-loud moment, articulated by Sutherland's facial expression with all the subtlety of a Covent Garden mime artist. His certainty and rationality in tatters, he takes Claire's stash of 'suicide' pills, and goes off to die in the stables. Claire is remarkably calm when she discovers him. She covers him with straw and goes back to – where else? – the terrace. High Priestess Bore Justine lectures the now broken Claire, both of them mostly ignoring Claire's young son. 'Life is only on earth – and not for long'; 'The earth is evil – no one will miss it.' On and on she goes. Claire wonders what might be the right way to meet the end of the world. A glass of wine on the terrace, she suggests. But Justine is having none of it. Instead, she spends her last hours building a wigwam. Without a canvas. The trio sit in it and hold hands, as the CGI comes rolling towards them. The End.

This is not a beautiful film about the end of the world. It's an ugly, nasty film. It's filmmaking of the most juvenile kind possible. It's indulgence at the highest level. Von Trier has spoken openly about his battles with depression. Let's be clear: this film celebrates the condition of the depressive. It's an insult to anyone who has endured the bite of the black dog. It seems to suggest, even to the extent of endowing Justine with psychic powers, that depressives are special, an elect. It claims that depression is empowering. It says that depression is good and real. It glorifies the type of oblivion that most of us left behind long ago in our teenage room. But the problem is more than that. I don't believe for one moment von Trier believes any of it. He's making films, after all.

The dishonesty doesn't stop there, either. When Kubrick took Strauss's Blue Danube for 2001: A Space Odyssey, when Visconti took Mahler's Adagettio from his Fifth Symphony for Death in Venice, there was a sense of artists meeting across time, enriching and enhancing each other. A relationship. When von Trier takes one of the most beautiful pieces in the history of western music, ripe for the cinematic picking – the overture from Tristan and Isolde – he does so to lend ballast to his lightweight efforts. He uses – and abuses – Wagner to distract us from the pretentious emo twaddle he's dishing out. He gives us art, all right. But it's not his to take.

Where you come from

2011-09-21T13:43:00.007+01:00

I've worked out the problem with getting older. For a while, I thought it was the difficulty that wrinkles presented. Could I be a feminist and realistically contemplate getting a jab of Botox? Did I still have the right to enter the changing rooms of Topshop? But this year, it's all become so very clear. The problem with getting older is that people suddenly start dying more often. Great people.

This past weekend, my grandmother passed away. She was our family matriarch. She was also hilarious; much of that hilarity, it dawns on me now, more intentional than I had previously supposed. It's a kind of disenfranchised grief, in a way, losing the elderly. People are keen to pass off the death of those who enjoyed a long and relatively healthy life. It's as if you are meant to carry on regardless. If I once hear the old rejoinder 'She had a good innings,' I will not be responsible for my actions. The fact that someone is old or has 'lived their life' changes the selfishness of the bereaved not a jot. We want those we love to be with us forever. We fool ourselves until they are not there that they always will be. We want them to protect us. And this world is so replete with a lack of acceptance that their entire acceptance of us is worth more than any kind of success you can achieve in this world. I wish I'd noticed that earlier.

My grandmother did not have a grand life. Not in the way I used to think was grand. She went into service as a girl – yes, the world was really like that, and not so very long ago. She went on to become one of the best landladies in Wales. She loved the man in her life until he left her a widow in her 60s. She loved her daughter. In my father she found the son she never had. She adored her grandchildren. She worshipped her many brothers and sisters. But, of course, as we go through life, we recognise more keenly that great lives can often be small and small lives can often be very great indeed.

My grandmother's time in service led to a curious situation in which she was the only one of our clan ever to have lived in a stately home – Blenheim Palace, no less. She was evacuated there during the war, along with the upper-class girls who were schooled there and whose lives she made comfortable. 'They were lovely and so good to me,' she said, much to my class-conscious teen fury. We went back there in the 1980s, and she lovingly went through every room, remarking how little it had changed. Yes, she went back – as if it was yesterday, recalling her many duties with no hint of self-pity, but, instead, pride. She could explain more about the place than the guidebook we bought. It is with amusement now that I note that, during her period there, the yanks had also landed in the grounds and set up their camp. Nan viewed the era as a golden one in her life.

She married my grandfather, after he somehow managed to charm her, despite his enduring mischief – they met when, behind her in the queue, he exposed her ration fraud to a shopkeeper. They entered the pub trade and she became landlady of The Greyhound (a pub I re-imagined as The King's Head in a poem of mine). Neil Kinnock was a young radical, supping regularly. They both thought him a mouthy and disrespectful fake and later keenly pointed this out every time he appeared on the news, roundly mocked by commentators, in the 80s. My grandfather sacked Tom Jones and his then band (Tommy Scott and the Senators) from their appearances at the pub, thus freeing up the Welsh Pelvis's schedule, and allowing a bit of rock and roll history to happen. 'Tom Jones can't sing,' they both insisted. Many great people passed through their hours there.

But she was special to me because she was such a committed personality. Intractable in her beliefs, always exhibiting outward strength in times of great despair, unwavering in her devotion and loyalty to family and all that that meant and obligated one to. She was the perfect, textbook Welsh woman. Her support of me was enormous. She took great pride in my achievements, especially when I received my degree. And she could be quite uniquely ingenious in her magpie hunts around Swansea, once turning up a vintage issue of Poetry Wales she discovered in some car boot sale or other, just as I was starting to write my own poetry. 'It's perfect,' I told her. And it was. But not every discovery was quite so successful. The whole family found themselves regularly gifted with eccentric objects, most pretty useless – and she converted her living room, after my grandfather's passing, into a cave of bizarre delights. 'It's like santa's bloody grotto in here,' my brother once dryly observed. She laughed. She was impossible to offend and unconcerned with conformity.

There was no one quite like her. It's such a sad thing to lose someone who knew you and loved you your whole life. It's almost like a part of who you were then has been taken with them.

But here she is as a young girl, in a photo weathered through the time travel. She was remarkably pretty. And her good looks lasted her entire life. She was always very pleased about that. She was incredibly and amusingly vain. Perhaps her only flaw. Along with her bingo habit. And we loved her for it, and for everything.

Poetry and Places

2011-09-14T18:59:00.000+01:00

I've not updated that regularly over the last month or so. It's been an incredibly hectic time, with new projects and various secret missions. I intend to get back into my groove very, very shortly. And I have a review to post, too...

In the meantime, I've noticed that A Poet's Guide to Britain is currently being repeated and can be viewed on iPlayer. I contributed to the latest to be re-screened, on Lynette Roberts. It was a pleasure to be involved in the series, and Owen proved to be a terrific presenter. There's also a few other episodes still live on the Beeb website, so grab them while you can or buy on Amazon. You can also buy an accompanying anthology.

More soon.

Chief Executive of Literature Wales

2011-08-30T11:55:00.000+01:00

Following the departure of our gifted Chief Executive since 1998, Peter Finch, Literature Wales is now seeking to appoint a new leader to carry the organisation forward into an exciting and ambitious future.

We are seeking an individual with a raft of energy, creative and entrepreneurial flair, and the ability to provide a truly inspirational and visionary leadership which reaches out to all sections of our literary community and general public. This is a rare opportunity to lead literature provision, programming and appreciation at a time of great renaissance in the two literatures of Wales. The ability to speak Welsh is essential for this post.

For further details on the job description and how to apply click here.

Today

2011-08-08T16:54:00.003+01:00

Back from Spain, where there was gloriously nothing to do – except to swim in the Med, read, let Sangria warmly rise to the head in a lovely tapas bar and play cards on the terrace. All this while the waves rushed and retreated. I think I am coming to understand the true purpose of holidays more and more as time passes.

So, safely returned, if somewhat depressed.

And then, at about 4am on Sunday morning: sirens. Around the corner from us, the local boyz were tearing up the neighbourhood. Some even apparently brought along shopping trolleys, clearly wedded to Baden-Powell's dictum: Be Prepared! Chief in their sights: JD Sports and our local, remarkably enlightened HMV, which does a good line in more specialist fayre (I once even discovered not one but two copies of the Director's Cut of Reds) and has a wonderful staff straight out of Kevin Smith central casting (and I mean that in the best sense). The boyz apparently went for the trainers first and the XBoxes second. That makes sense. They also managed to cover most of the high road in coat hangers and mannequins from H&M and further attenuate the fortunes of local independent shopkeepers on their way home. Your intrepid reporter, it must be said, did not get out of bed as witness, but, instead, refreshed on Twitter from safely under the duvet. The future of all news reporting. The next morning, I awoke with the strangest dream fresh in the mind: it was 1980-something and I was in love with Mickey Rourke and the country was in tur–... Well, there's no place like home. And sometimes, home is, indeed, so sad.

In other news, I am delighted to be joining Parthian Books as an Associate Editor. I've long admired Parthian's style and substance; as discoverer of some of the finest fresh talent around, Parthian has published authors who have gone on to major wins and shortlistings for some of the biggest prizes, including Wales Book of the Year, the Betty Trask, the Dylan Thomas Prize, and The Orange Futures Prize. Great to be a part of a visionary indie that fuses the contemporary line with tradition (in the shape of the Library of Wales series) and the homegrown with the international (as a notable source of quality fiction in translation). I'll be working on a number of projects for the publisher, including a new poetry series. More details on the Parthian website and this blog at the end of the month.

Tomorrow

2011-07-19T13:03:00.000+01:00

This one goes out to Rebekah Brooks. Like Simone de Beauvoir, she studied at the Sorbonne; unlike Simone de Beauvoir, she didn't complete her studies. I should add that the song has nothing whatsoever to do with Simone de Beauvoir or, indeed, Rebekah Brooks. But this is my inch-raised platform. I have found yawping the following keywords over the original track an aid to pleasure: Chipping Norton, Cheshire and Cameron.

I am off to get a suntan at the end of the week. But I'll be back with the usual in a few weeks, and I'll also be posting a review of Tamar Yoseloff's The City with Horns, which I have been meaning to do for ages. A very fine poet, so she is, and I'll explain why I think that in August.

Mañana.

For Once

2011-07-14T10:29:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday I went to see Tim Price's For Once at the Hampstead Theatre. Tim's a young playwright and screenwriter (TV credits including EastEnders and his award-winning drama for S4C, Y Pris). He's been making waves as a talent in Wales for some time – and has also been making his own unique contribution to its theatre scene with the highly successful Dirty Protest company, which brings together new and established playwrights showcasing spanking hot-off-the-keyboard work in a... Mongolian yurt. Yes, a Mongolian yurt. For Once marks the first in a trio of major premieres of his work, including The Radicalisation of Bradley Manning – which has recently been commissioned by National Theatre Wales.

For Once is a three-hander study in provincial despair; a play meditating on the difficulties of access to communication, honesty and love from those we need the very most. The play's starting point is the aftermath of a car crash, as Sid, the lone surviving teenager among his best friends, struggles with guilt – while his parents April and Gordon scramble to recapture a normalcy for him and for themselves that none of them, we discover, ever really possessed in the first place. As well as highlighting the stark reality of interplay, that extreme events tend to expose rather than derange existing human relationships, the play's complementary theme is the difficulty of being young in the apparently idealistic setting of villages or small towns. Denied excitement in controlled environments, there is nothing to do but drive fast and drive dangerously, to nowhere. Mr Cameron, are you listening?

If this sounds bleak – well, at times, it is. The static set of a kitchen-diner area holds the characters suspended in their own frustratingly separate and yet united existences, and, in what is surely a fond nod to Osborne, an ironing board on which April rhythmically steams away at her husband's shirts in anger and sorrow almost becomes a fourth character. But the play is distinguished by a rich humour, too. For even in tragedy – and sometimes especially in it – there can still be levity. Laughs about a labrador dog called 'Neil', middle-aged women who wear wooden jewellery and ludicrous middle-class pomposity all add to an impressive mix.

Comes highly recommended. For Once runs to 30th July. Visit the Hampstead Theatre website for more details.

Wales Book of the Year announced

2011-07-08T14:44:00.000+01:00

The Wales Book of the Year 2011 was announced last night. The gong went to Parthian author John Harrison – a remarkable travel writer – for Cloud Road, a book recounting his adventures walking the great road of the Incas, the Camino Real. John's a very nice man as well as being accomplished. This recognition of his work is pleasing indeed – and it comes with a £10,000 cheque, too, which is always handy for a writer. Also on the shortlist were Alistair Reynolds, for his SF novel Terminal World, and the unique Pascale Petit, for her arresting verse biography of Frida Kahlo, What the Water Gave Me – a poetry collection from 2010 which I've especially admired.

It was heartening to see such an intelligent but varied collection of books and genres from the judges – from the longlist right through to the shortlist. Francesca Rhydderch, Jon Gower and Deborah Kay Davies have done, I think, a very fine job of producing a list of books from Wales or with Welsh connections that reminds us all of the leaps and bounds our literature has made since the renaissance that began a decade ago.

I should add that the Readers' Choice Award went to Tyler Keevil for Fireball. If you haven't read it yet, then do. It's a wonderful, gripping, moving, coming-of-age novel, with echoes of Hinton's The Outsiders, King's The Body (later made into the iconic film Stand by Me) and Nicholas Ray's star-making Rebel Without a Cause. In a wonderful twist on our open and international nation, Tyler's a Canadian, the book is set in Vancouver, and he's published by Wales's Parthian Books. I interviewed Tyler last year, and it proved to be one of the most enjoyable conversations I've ever had with an author about their book. He knows what he's about and what the work is about. Good luck to him with his future projects.

So: congratulations to the winners. And congratulations to all those who made their way onto the longlist in such a vintage year.

You can find out more here. And to discover more about Literature Wales which administers the Wales Book of the Year, among many other crucial activities in promoting Welsh literature, click here.

Is the future Google+?

2011-06-30T12:48:00.000+01:00

So: currently being rolled out on limited trial is Google+ (what creative genius hit upon such an utterly marvellous name?), a new networking site that claims to offer greater ease at interface and greater ability to control how we share, and how much, to various individuals in 'circles of our lives'. 'Circles of our lives' sounding remarkably like a line from 'The Windmills of Your Mind'.

Facebook's current privacy controls are a darned nuisance. It's all or nothing, basically – which presents us with sticky situations as regards the way the personal, professional and, sometimes, political tend to all converge these days on Facebook – a problem only likely to further complicate, rather than simplify, our lives. We may want close friends to share in last night's escapades, but we may not want others in our lives to be so well informed. On the other hand, we may want everyone to share our joy in winning Employee of the Year. Facebook, at present, only gives us the ability to share or not share updates. Period. Sharing photos to select groups will also, apparently, be far simpler than on Facebook. So it may be an end to the inner critic and the inner censor. A good thing? Erm. Discuss. But I can see the potential attraction of Google+ – particularly for the younger generation. Also for those, like myself, who seek to increasingly use social networking as a one-stop shop: a way to maintain their friendships – but also stay connected to people in their workplace or in their field (this latter objective unsatisfied by LinkedIn).

The worry, for those who love social networking but also fear disclosure (well, paradoxically, don't we all?), is that Google+ will encourage more information sharing, albeit to different 'circles' of our lives, than ever before. A feeling that you're 'safe'. Of course, you will be safe from certain people in your life knowing The Last Detail, but Google+ will know all. Google's start-up mantra was 'Don't be evil'. But how many still believe that? And then there's the option, rather strangely lauded and welcomed by Google+, to not use real names. We know that this happens on Facebook, but it is important that it is against Facebook's T&C and can get you booted off. Just seeing the headmaster's ruler on the table can be a powerful thing, sometimes. I can see avenues lined with sleaze and cans of spam in such a lax approach to user management. And what about online harassment?

Google+ also offers solid, additional features that I've been long looking for in Facebook's evolution – but which have so far failed to materialise. Better and tailored streaming, for instance. And video chat would help me dispense with the need for Skype. Like Facebook Chat, video chat on Google+ will allow you to create controls for your availability to other users. And you can even group chat. I certainly actively use Facebook at present to keep in touch with friends in this great world, at home and abroad. I'd like to see their faces, too. I'd like to talk. And update. And comment. And like. All at the same time.

Or perhaps, on second thoughts, I wouldn't.

At present, I can't tell you how it is. I am not one of the gilded selected to try and to feed their experience back. But it's coming soon. And, as we speak, Zuckerberg's geeks are locked in a little room somewhere in Menlo Park, with beer bombs and the clock ticking. A piece on it here.

Update: I now have an invite, so I will report anon!

On Meetings with Great Men

2011-06-28T17:42:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I met with Dannie Abse. It was business. But it was also a very great pleasure. Despite my dealings in the literary scene in Wales, Dannie and I have never before met.

Dannie has special significance for me. Way back in 1999, then a journeywoman poet (which I still am, which I always will be), a close friend had gifted me Dannie’s Twentieth Century Anglo-Welsh Poetry, an anthology containing many names regrettably no longer with us. I devoured the book, and it became my springboard to enter a poetry I had had little acquaintance with at school, save for, of course, the ubiquitous two Thomases. It's a remarkably balanced anthology. R. S. and Dylan do not dominate, for one thing. And some great women poets to be found. In those pages, I formed my first friendships with certain poets who later became friends in person. And I discovered the work of the late, Swansea-born John Ormond, a poet I remain tremendously affected by and one responsible for two marvellous poems that have stayed with me since a first reading: the witty ‘Cathedral Builders’ and a celebration of Eros in marriage, ‘Design for a Quilt’. (A Collected of Ormond’s work is, incidentally, forthcoming from Seren, edited by Michael Collins – and I am glad to hear this.)

Later, Dannie would become important to me again. For he was instrumental in the foundation of Seren (in its early days, Poetry Wales Press): the press had initially operated out of a room at his house in Ogmore-by-Sea. And Seren became my home in 2004.

That summer following publication of my first collection, I went up to The Wordsworth Trust to read with Welsh star and friend Owen Sheers (though that was our first encounter). He was poet-in-residence at the time. We were both, I think – if I can speak for him, too – slightly starstruck to see, there in the audience, the great man Michael Foot. Michael, through the 80s, had been an early hero of mine. A maverick who had possessed a mind the size of some gigantic, as yet undiscovered planet, and who, it is whispered, was the only political sparring partner that made the Iron Lady frightened in debate. I had loved him and defended him passionately from detractors at school and later at university. So there we were. I took to the platform, six months pregnant and utterly terrified. I tried not to look at Foot, who looked up, politely, attentively. But there he was. And there I was, declaiming in front of one of the greatest political orators of the twentieth century. It was, shall we say, a tough gig. I am not sure I was equal to the task.

Later, at dinner, I found myself sitting next to him. We chatted. He told me that he liked my work. I was grateful for his kindness, but I suspected that he was putting the trembling young woman at ease. Then, a month after the reading, I received, through the post, a copy of his Uncollected Michael Foot, forwarded by The Wordsworth Trust. It’s a fantastic book. Michael had written as inscription: ‘For Kathryn Gray: August 2004. Good luck. See P.353.’ I was touched to tears that he had, given his enormous health difficulties at that time, taken such particular care and kindness with an insecure young poet. I made a mental note for the future – if the future ever happened to me. Action really is character. I turned to the page. It was a typically brilliant review he had done for the Observer back in 1997 – of Dannie’s Twentieth Century Anglo-Welsh Poetry. Title: ‘Wales to the World.’ Perhaps the phrase I’ve been repeating as a mantra ever since. How funny, I thought then. I took it as, somehow, meaningful for me – such is the arrogance unavoidable in youthful ambition, made worse by a sense of inadequacy, deep down. Now, I see it as meaningful for us all. The correct interpretation, my friends. But you knew that already.

Meeting Dannie yesterday, I was struck by his cheer and his informality and interestedness. He’s also tremendously witty. Here was one of the elder statesmen of literature, a man who has been friend to them all – and we chatted as if we had known each other years. But, I thought, this is how you become a true success. Not by prizes alone, though, as we know, Dannie has collected many over the years. But by the way you are. By the grace. By being kind to great and small. By surviving the slings and arrows of the literary world – or in Michael’s lifetime, and perhaps even more challenging, the political world – with your integrity and your heart intact.

Dannie is 87 but shows no signs of slowing. Parthian, as part of the accclaimed Library of Wales series, will republish his incredibly engaging, moving and often hilarious autobiography Goodbye, Twentieth Century in the autumn of this year, which will also include a generous epilogue, taking in a momentous past decade. Look out for it.

When great things happen to great people

2011-06-23T16:04:00.000+01:00

Today I enjoyed a wonderful lunch at the offices of Faber & Faber to celebrate poet Kona Macphee's award of the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize. Fine food, convivial company, and some familiar, lovely faces. I was not the only person present to comment: 'Why can't we do this every day?'

Kona joins a distinguished list of poets who have won this coveted prize (it alternates between poetry and fiction), including Seamus Heaney, Hugo Williams, Tony Harrison, Alice Oswald, Paul Muldoon, John Burnside, Michael Hofmann, Geoffrey Hill, Don Paterson, Kathleen Jamie, Greta Stoddart, Glyn Maxwell, and my late, great teacher Michael Donaghy – Obi-Wan Kenobi of an almost entire generation of younger poets. Kona received the prize in recognition of a splendid second collection, Perfect Blue.

Kona and I go way back to 2001. The two of us appeared together in the anthology Anvil New Poets 3. It is difficult to convey now my joy then when first I held that anthology in my hands – oh, how clever I am! – or my shame when I leafed through and happened upon two devastating lines: 'He grips the gather of her waist / and pours her like a ewer into dance.' At the foot of the page, the poet's name: Kona Macphee. I was so utterly incapable of such concise, entirely apt and beautiful imagery. The sophistication was staggering. Reading further, the depression simply grew. Kona Macphee, I thought, you are just too annoyingly talented. But, as with all true talents, Kona is a terrific person, with humility, generosity and a rich sense of humour.

Kona published a first, acclaimed collection, Tails, in 2004. And, in 2010, she followed this with Perfect Blue. I published some poems which later appeared in the collection in New Welsh Review, so I had an indication that Perfect Blue was going to be a book of incredible quality, integrity and maturity. And so it is. I am thrilled that Kona has won this award, which will push her to the front of things – where she belongs. Buy the book!

What happens to the past

2011-06-20T15:04:00.000+01:00

Technology. Double-edged. As someone who works from home, it's true that I find Facebook, for example, indispensable. It connects me; it makes me feel part of a community, now that I'm far from the watercooler moments of office life, the beautiful communal suffering of the morning-long meeting, the quips around the kettle. It has its downsides, too. Facebook means that you can never quite run from the past. Vexations to the spirit you've long since wisely dispensed with In Real Life linger there, reminding you of Bad Things, like being angry. Being angry with the past. I spied, recently, by accident, a friend that I'd parted ways with some time ago. There they were, their reckless happiness beaming out. They had wronged me – terribly, irrevocably, without apology. But there they were, happy and living their life! The noive! And then there's the shock of one particular friend suggestion: the boy who took me to Rain Man in 1988, whose reaction to my sensitively conveyed decision not to take our non-relationship any further resulted in some choice malicious slander that went on for years and years. I didn't think much of the film, either. Is he still the person he was then? I take no chances – with his psychic stability or his taste in cinema. Block! And yet, there he is: on the block, on ice. He's still there. Life goes on – or does it?

But, once upon a time, we did want to go back, we really did – even as we were in the moment. Affordable home filmmaking. A revolution of the 70s that has preserved us as we were, as we will always somehow be. My old schoolfriend Rich posted this wonderful video of his fifth birthday. I can be spotted in the opening frames, the chubby little girl sitting on the sofa to the left, wearing a fetching maxi party dress, staring off into the middle distance and then spontaneously jumping, as was my wont. I can subsequently be identified as one of the first in line for the scram. Life was so simple then: behold on the table, a plate of Pink Wafers!

Ends

2011-06-15T00:00:00.000+01:00

So now: the human heart.

One of the finest intellectual and social experiments of my life was when I went up to read German, way back in the day, at Bristol University. I was a wide-eyed Swansea girl – all too plain and noticeably brunette against the ponytailed young blonde goddesses who strode along Woodland Road, chased by young men inevitably called Toby. I also wore a lot of tie-dye. So it was an intimidating experience at first, particularly when one friendly girl in halls – with a foghorn voice that would give Celia Johnson a run for her vowels and a physique on her that assured me that I would prefer a climb in the Andes over a hockey match with her – confessed one evening that she couldn't understand me very well. I can't remember if it was that night or the night after that my accent began to accommodate. Whatever, the unsuccessful result is that when I go home to Wales I am considered English and when in England I am considered Welsh... And wherever I am, I don't know what accent I do have, exactly. But I made some terrific friends at Bristol, across the social spectrum. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

And I was fortunate to have entered an academic department that was simply fantastic. I've never forgotten the great tutors I had during those formative years, who genuinely helped to shape my ambition and my values, and who made it very clear to me that you didn't require a fee-paid secondary education to excel with them. Among these was an academic, Professor Frank Shaw. Frank was one of the two people who ignited an improbable and lasting passion for Medieval Literature in me. He was a kind and generous man, and one who combined an outstanding erudition with patient compassion for the lesser mortals that passed through his dedicated life, such as myself. He encouraged me greatly, once taking me aside to tell me I should go on to study in the field following a paper I had given. As an insecure young woman back then, it felt like permission. And, of course, it was. I set my mind to it.

I did go on to study in the field, but I never did become the academic of his example. I found, as we do in life, that I had wanted something different after all. And, it seems, I may have found it. But I never forgot his influence. He occurred to me especially this evening, and I thought that I might drop him a line, on a sentimental whim. Not sentimental after all, it turns out – but too long overdue. For I found that he had unexpectedly passed away in the spring. He was a true Mensch. I owe him a lot. We'll settle the balance, I hope, in the great hereafter, over a glass of wine and the Nibelungenlied.

On the Thought of Frivolous Things

2011-06-10T17:16:00.000+01:00

I have been away. I have been here, there and everywhere. Moving furniture behind the scenes. Metaphorically speaking. Of which, I can say no more. I would sleep, but there is still more work to do. It is exciting work. So I cannot complain. I'll update this blog with some bits and bobs of the usual persuasion soon. But that is for week commencing 13/06/11. Monday.

I will leave you with this thought. Behold my most treasured of shoes! I fondled them earlier. Couldn't help it. I do this periodically.

See how forlorn they look without me in them, dancing. But their time will come! I'll take them to Paris, and we'll stay up late – listening to bad acid jazz, drinking Ricard. I am just not sure when. For the time being, there is hope, love and always, always books.

Happy Weekend! And more next week!

A roll in the Hay

2011-05-31T11:45:00.000+01:00

Wonderful events at Hay this year; I enjoyed the company of Reza Aslan, Dinaw Mengestu and Mohsin Hamid. Three writers who, in their various ways, tackle difficult subject matter with courage and true style.

One of the most remarkable things about Hay is the sense of intimacy, the lack of grandeur. Offstage, Mohsin and I chatted about his great mentor, Toni Morrison, and how his contact with her gave him a sense of belonging and ownership of his talent. But it was a tribute to his real class that he seemed as interested in my life as in discussing his own. His charisma on the stage was mesmerising, as he talked candidly about controversy, hash and the realities of contemporary Pakistani life for the young. If you haven't read his books, then do. Moth Smoke, which we were discussing, is a gripping noir, with corruption and an infernal, eternal triangle at its heart. The Reluctant Fundamentalist, which was Man Booker shortlisted, is a monologue that challenges the reader's own ideas of justification and reasonableness, and tackles the post 9/11 world with a personal history – though not, I should emphasise, Mohsin's own.

Mohsin was reading and talking to a packed-out audience alongside Ethiopian-American author Dinaw Mengestu. Dinaw's first novel was Children of the Revolution, which garnered prizes and critical admiration galore, and took the Guardian First Book Award in 2007. He was humble, softly spoken and ailing terribly with a sore throat. Our wonderful young steward was trying to hunt down some Strepsils, to no avail. Sans Strepsils, Dinaw nevertheless went on stage and floored the audience with a superb delivery of excerpts from his haunting novel How to Read the Air. A must-read book, and one that has true reach. While the legacy of immigration anchors the narrative, this is a novel that is of interest to anyone who has ever thought about how their parents' pathology repeats within their own – or how they are fugitives from it – and one that considers the use and abuse of fictions in our lives. The wind repeatedly struck our tent, but it only seemed to contribute to the atmosphere and the themes under discussion.

The night before, I discussed Reza Aslan's superb anthology Tablet and Pen. Reza is an intellectual giant, but one who is also in possession of a large heart and a fantastic sense of humour. Anyone seeking po-faced worthiness would have been disappointed. Our event was full of optimism, mixing the seriousness of this activist enterprise with a welcome levity. Knowledge and education were great, Reza noted, but without the arts cultural understanding and the sense of a shared humanity would always elude us. He regarded his anthology as another hopeful step along the way towards establishing the literature of the Middle East in the canon of world literature. Sample highlights under consideration were the hidden histories of women poets, fatwas, the truth about the green revolution in Iran, and the future of East-West relations.

Meanwhile, in the Green Room, I might have missed Mr Rob Lowe, having arrived an hour too late to deconstruct St Elmo's Fire (regular readers of this blog will have noted my passion for the film and for Lowe's place in it), but I swooned over one of my favourite maverick directors, none other than John Waters. Impossible fangirl, I couldn't muster up the courage to speak to him. A missed moment to file under 'Regret'. I bumped into friend Tiffany Murray – brilliant novelist and brilliant person, to boot. Henning Mankell, Scandinavian king of noir and creator of the Wallander mystery novels, was one of the highlights of the day, and sat quietly, with super-charged charisma. Owen Sheers had just enjoyed a fantastic event with Don Paterson. And noted journalists drank lots of coffee. There was much laughter.

At breakfast on the last day, in my pretty lodgings, I sat around a table with the distinguished author, journalist and co-writer of The King's Speech (book of the film), Peter Conradi, and the marvellous Polly Toynbee. Both were charming, down-to-earth and very witty. Another example of the many surreal and wonderful moments I've experienced at Hay over the years. And to think, I might have become a medievalist. Praise be for the road not taken.

Returns

2011-05-23T13:53:00.000+01:00

I've not updated recently. Unfortunately, eleven days ago, my MacBook's hard drive decided to preempt The Rapture and is, as they say, outta here. The geniuses at the Genius Bar in Regent Street have replaced it with a new brain. A new brain that now needs to be trained. This is my third Apple désastre; as they go, I'd rate it a 3/10. So that's some improvement. I've been relying on my iPhone to maintain contact with the outside world. Needless to say, where once I had a right hand, I now have a thrawn claw. But am I smiling? Why, yes!

It's all been happening in the meantime. Or has it? Well, The Rapture didn't. But given that the failed prophet went by the name of Harold Camping, you'd have thought more questions would have been asked ahead of The Time, even by the impossibly gullible. No win, then, for Camping. Or for his disciples. But a big win for the insurance companies offering Post-Rapture Care for Pets.

In other news, a storm in an egg cup has broken over Carmen Callil's retirement from the panel of judges for the International Man Booker Prize, in protest at Philip Roth's win. Callil has since pronounced that '[he] goes on and on and on about the same subject in almost every single book. It's as though he's sitting on your face and you can't breathe.' Is this, though, not the quality of every great writer (though striking the sit on my face image, to spare Jane Austen's blushes)? You may now turn over your paper and begin. The public jury is out whether or not silence is golden, and whether or not Callil's retirement from the panel was sufficient to register her clear annoyance at Roth's honour. In any case, the issue goes on. And on. Social media has much to answer for.

Being apart from the Mac over the last eleven days has had its definite upside. For one thing, I've been able to lose myself in a truly engaging, beautiful and challenging anthology that records the twentieth century in the Middle East through literature. Edited by noted writer, scholar and activist Reza Aslan, Tablet and Pen is a remarkable and handsome book from Norton that takes the reader away from the hackneyed and so fatal view of the Middle East as a uniform, extremist region and towards a sophisticated and often enlightening vision of a rich political, social, cultural and artistic mosaic. Of particular note is the role women have played in the latter part of the twentieth century in shaping the literary landscape. I'll be talking with Reza this Saturday evening at the Hay Festiva l about the anthology, its contributors and their various contexts, and the power literature has to build bridges across cultures, to help us locate a shared humanity and to keep us clear of the easy backslide into prejudice. Do join us if you can.