Roger McGough in the Howard Assembly Room

Richard Wilcocks writes:

Roger McGough did not disappoint: the capacity audience at the magnificent Howard Assembly Room loved him to bits. As he read from As Far As I Know, adding witty commentary and extra personal narratives, the laughs and murmurs of appreciation came at frequent intervals, in spite of (because of?) the melancholy subject matter – moving poems on growing old, lost youth, love and death. At one point he reminded me of the comedian Paul Merton, not in appearance but in the wordplay, the wit and the ability to see things afresh, from interesting angles. At another point I was struck by the dark cloud I saw looming behind some of the poems, Knock Knock for example:

The man from the murder

Still on the loose

The man from the nightmare

The man from the fear…

…Did I hear someone knock

Who’s that at the door?

Or in Nice Try:

As we speak, they’re out there

Scythes at the ready, playing hide and seek.

Me under a bush, you in the shade

Someone counting to ten, sharpening a blade.

And I amongst many was deeply impressed by Not For Me a Youngman’s Death, an update on possibly his most famous poem of the Sixties, when he was more fast-living and went to all-night parties, Let Me Die a Youngman’s Death. It was suggested by Carol Ann Duffy, and he tells us about what it’s like now:

My nights are rarely unruly.

My days of all-night parties

Are over, well and truly.

No mistresses no red sports cars

No shady deals no gangland bars

No drugs no fags no rock ‘n’ roll

Time alone has taken its toll

Creating a league table of top contemporary poets is likely to be at best contentious, at worst woundingly humiliating, but that is what the poetic powers-that-be did four decades ago. They were connected with Poetry Review, the influential magazine of the Poetry Society, and included the likes of Andrew Motion, our previous poet laureate. Roger McGough, often associated by commentators with The Beatles, popular and famous as a member of The Scaffold with its Lily The Pink and Aintree Iron, a Liverpudlian with working class origins, was put into the ranks of the second division, at the bottom. That’s the problem with popularity – some people think you can’t be profound as well, and that to be clever you have to be arcane. Perhaps it was thought simply that the scousers were getting above themselves.

It rankled with him, and now it comes out in this latest collection. One  poem in it which he did not read – Scorpio – begins with what the popular John Betjeman wrote: ‘Our poems are part of ourselves. They are our children and we do not like them to be made public fools of by strangers’. McGough continues:

...

I will never reveal the names of those strangers,

Fellow poets some of them, and literary critics

Who have made public fools of my children.

They know who they are. Those still alive, that is.

Their names inscribed on the base of a paperweight.

But McGough rises above mere spleen-venting, which is not his style, as anyone who has been charmed by him as the presenter of Radio 4’s Poetry Please well knows. He is, in fact, a bit of a saint, the ‘patron saint of poetry’ in the words of today’s poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, and the wheel has turned: in addition to being a CBE, he is the new President of the Poetry Society. There are certain ironies to savour there. 

Love Lines - Teresa Brayshaw and Friends in HEART Café

Sally Bavage writes:

Escorted individually to our allotted seats in the pop-up 'restaurant' with communal refectory-style table, for one night only in the Heart café, audience members were immediately immersed in the evening's glamorous yet mysterious atmosphere created by the 'cast.'  “Glass of wine?”  “Do sit here and make yourself comfortable.”   “Help yourself to the grapes.”  Scattered hearts on the red and white tablecloths, live and mellow notes from 'Blue Moon' and 'Funny Valentine' set the mood.  Expectant.  Intrigued.

The 'cast' of nine performers sat amongst the 'guests' at the table and began to speak to each other, and us, about love. We talk of it, plead for it, cry about it, don't we? We write of it, don't we? - letters, emails, texts.  We skype, meet, date, don't we?  So love 'lines' - from sonnets and songs, from films and poems - were sent across the table in a medley of conversations that mixed medium with message.  

Lines were started at one place, continued through time and place, source and country and ended up echoing round the table in ghostly fragments of conversations.  Like the love lines and lifelines on our palms, talking of love is endless.

Mollie Bloom discoursed movingly on it.  Jack and Rose from the Titanic pledged to each other within our earshot.  Shakespeare questioned us from the distant past, answered by conversations between lovers from a more recent age.  Loving messages and refrains from across the centuries 'spoke' to each other across the years.  Was that Pliny? Henry the Eighth?  Rosa Luxembourg?  Mrs Beeton?  Admiral Nelson?  Napoleon? Empress Josephine?  Robert Burns?  Mrs Wordsworth?  Lord Byron?  Shirley Bassey?  The Artist Formerly Known As Prince?  Frank Sinatra?  Oscar Wilde?  Robert Browning?  John Lennon?  







Yes, imagine all of them in the room conversing about their desires and longings, setbacks and joys, domestic disasters and sexual frissons.  Could we spot the joins in these conversations?  No, there is a universal language that lovers use not bound by time or date - the same sweeping human emotions seem to have been expressed in words that differ little from age to age.  “Give me my memories” begs one rejected lover.  Like letters from the front in WW1, the words sent back and forth between separated lovers in post-war Russia echo the pain of those distanced from all that is human and warm.  

Like an audience at the ballet or opera, the 'guests' wanted to clap each individual piece that was both clever and affecting but we could not, and did not, break the mood and spoil the moments.  A final refrain from “Until we meet again” seemed most apt, as the 'guests' fervently asserted that we hope it will be at next year's LitFest!

An hour of truly absorbing entertainment, with masterful performances in memorisation, song and playing of parts from a committed cast and technical support team that included those returning especially from Spain, France and points of the English compass.  For love, naturally.  Commissioned for LitFest 2013, this premiere performance owes many thanks to: Steve Atkinson, Teresa Brayshaw, Hannah Butterfield, Lisa Fallon, Joely Fielding, Louise Hill, Rochnee Mehta, Emma Sargison, Noel Witts - with support from Charlotte Blackburn and Matt Sykes-Hooban. Oliver Bray took photos and Ben Mills filmed the event.

Lives and Loves - a celebration

Richard Wilcocks writes:
This annual event, made possible by the generosity of Jimbo’s Fund, was as stimulating and emotional as ever. It was compered this year by James Nash, who introduced each reader with his habitual good humour, making helpful comments and observations where necessary. James is the tutor for one of the two creative writing groups involved – the Osmondthorpe Writers – and he sat at the front next to the tutor of the other one, based at HEART, Alison Taft. The new experience of reading their own work in front of a strange audience -  an extremely supportive one it must be said - required courage from some of the readers, but there was no lack of that.

Michael Taylor sang Lonely Girl from memory, and was much appreciated. Less melancholy was Lee Rowley, whose love poem Laura could easily be set to music. Joe Geraghty’s short story was about sneezing, handkerchiefs and perfume as well as love, with amusing references to hay fever and Piriton, and Richard Sharpe’s My Girlfriend was full of charm. Siobhan Maguire Broad’s nostalgic Why I love films included her fond memories of eating sugar jellies, The Jungle Book and old cinemas filled with cigarette smoke, Carl Flynn gave us his neatly-rhymed Don’t touch me without not a glance at the script and Ted Gregory read a colleague’s collection of childhood memories from Summer 1956.

Geoffrey Vickers’s Letter Home was from a soldier to his sweetheart back at home, the one whose photo he carries in a leather case, and David Newton’s The Place I Love, with its carefully-crafted abrupt, short phrases was about flying Chinook helicopters in dangerous circumstances, Vietnam for example. Both of these could return for next year’s LitFest, the theme of which will be Conflict.

Mandey Hudson made us laugh with her Elephants, huge creatures who have to be shampooed, and Moira Garland delivered two literary tours de force  with a brief story – Balloons – and a funny-but-true tale about not getting around to actually writing the three hundred words required for the weekly creative writing session entitled Ode To The Procrastination of Writing. Heads nodded in recognition as she read. She was followed by Winkie Whiteley reading her moving The thing I love – Mum.

Caroline Wilkinson’s adventurous This Block was made up largely of short phrases – “hungry for the touch”, “deafening closeness” -  and was a kind of celebration of movement and the senses, as associated with lovers. Fabian Merinyo-Shirima, who originates from Tanzania, read Kilimanjaro, and warned me to be careful if I ever tried to climb the mountain, because there have been so many fatalities. His poem was full of information, like an article in National Geographic Magazine, together with a feeling of love for his homeland.

Ted Gregory read Michael Freeman’s Don’t Lose Your Paddle with aplomb, a sad story of loathing between two siblings, one of whom tries to drown out memories with alcohol, and Ruth Middleton, in her true-to-life Creating a Ripple, put her focus on the everyday nature of a woman’s existence. Robert Thorpe’s I love helicopters included his thoughts on the pleasures of cleaning the machines, and Unwind by Howard Benn was a beautiful concluding piece: “The sun tucks down beneath the sheets… while lovers do battle in their beds…”

Information about the creative writing classes run by the WEA can be found on www.wea.org.uk or by contacting alistaft@aol.com or james@jamesnash.co.uk

Rebel Girls/The Woodhouse Woman

Jill Liddington

Lucy Bourne, Maggie Mash, Beth Kilburn

Mary Francis writes:
Headingley Library was packed out for this lively double bill. The event was inspired by Jill Liddington's superb research into little known Yorkshire fighters for women's suffrage.

Rebel Girls, the book, published in 2006, is a tour de force - and also a riveting read! It features an astonishing number of local women - from a range of backgrounds and from the West Riding in particular - whose lives, exploits and sometimes even names had slipped into obscurity. It gives the lie to the notion that only middle and upper class women were interested in women’s rights and truly makes you understand the courage that it took at that time to step forward - out of line and into the front line, with all the vitriol and abuse that generally followed.

Jill talked about three women from Leeds who epitomised the waves of the early 20th century movement: Isabella Ford, the wealthy suffragist who introduced the issues to ordinary women in Leeds but did not want to go to extremes: Mary Gawthorpe, the diminutive working class woman from Woodhouse who was prepared to go to prison for the cause, and Leonora Cohen, who progressed from making marmalade for the Suffrage Movement to nearly dying from her hunger strike.

Questions from an enthralled audience ranged from the problems of researching 'ordinary' women (including the value of the internet, especially when subjects had moved to other countries in later life) to the impact of the Russian revolution in precipitating change.

Jill's review of the facts was followed by an imaginative dramatization of key moments in the life of Mary Gawthorpe by members of Theatre of the Dales. This wonderful drama, commissioned by Headingley LitFest and supported by the Arts Council, explored Mary's motivation through events from her childhood; changing her name from Nellie to a more forceful and admired Mary, and led us into the sheer exhilaration of being caught up in an inspiring movement that moved from protest to prison.

We went home humming suffragette songs. A brilliant evening!

Click here to go to Jill Liddington's website

Photos by Richard Wilcocks

Meanwhile, at the West Yorkshire Playhouse

Sally Bavage and Mary Francis write:

 Saturday afternoon saw a huge audience hear Benjamin Zephaniah (author of the book Refugee Boy) and Lemn Sissay (adaptor of the work for the stage) in conversation - and what a joyful occasion it was! A fascinating session in which both writers were thoughtful, informative and funny.

Eight years after Zephaniah first received requests for a stage adaptation of his book, he had agreed and, because he knew Sissay, had then left it all to him. On Saturday last he had not at that time even seen the play, though was to do so later.

We learned a great deal more about the two men as they talked and responded to a host of questions, including some things quite surprising - to me, at least. One such snippet was that when poet Benjamin Zephaniah was about to attempt his first novel he asked for advice on how to begin from a friend of his, the very successful writer of historical novels, Philippa Gregory - and her advice was spot-on!

.. and so to the play itself.

Powerful.  Thought-provoking.  An emotional journey.  All well-tried phrases but nevertheless very apt descriptions of a must-see new performance in the Courtyard theatre.  Above the display of art in the Courtyard foyer is the phrase: “A story about arriving, belonging and finding home.”  This adaptation explores this theme through the eyes of Alem, the Refugee Boy, whose arrival and wait for family to claim him takes us all on a journey.

The sense of displacement starts with the ingenious set of many piled suitcases and there are many narrative metaphors for the changes in Alem, his new friends and his families whose lives subtly intertwine. Politics determines his journey from Africa to England and his moves round the south.  What is the meaning of ‘home’ when yours is destroyed, moved, changed? Your cultural references change?  Your food and language adapt?  You will ponder as you leave the theatre to go home – wherever that is.

The play runs until 30 March.

Tell It Your Way, with the Yarnsmith of Norwich

Sheila Chapman writes:

4pm, Saturday 16 March, New Headingley Club

We were called from our lovely tea and cakes (thanks to Leeds Voice Day) by the beating of a drum to meet our mediaeval tale teller, Dave Tonge.

We sat in a semi-circle around Dave and the children sat on the sheepskin rugs on the floor. Dave started by asking us to solve a riddle. It was a long riddle (as befits a story teller) involving a bird asleep on the branch of a tree, our desperate need for the wood from the branch and , here’s the catch, the fact that the branch needed to be taken without disturbing the bird, for if the bird was disturbed  something nasty would happen. All our suggested solutions to the riddle were useless and we grew increasingly desperate. Someone even suggested shooting the bird but we passed on very quickly from that being all very sound Headingley anti-blood sport types.  In the end a wise-woman in the front row suggested we might wait until the bird woke up and flew away – of course that was the answer, doh!!!

And so the afternoon went on. Robin Hood won an archery competition (we gasped as he and his opponents demonstrated their skill and we applauded the final winning shots), a young man searched for and found his luck (it was NOT a happy ending), a man regretted finding a voice for his beautiful wife who had been previously dumb and, finally, it was proven that women are definitely brainier than men – wild cheers from the audience!

Throughout the event the children wriggled and squirmed on the rugs, they shot their hands in the air to answer questions, made off-the-wall suggestions for plot improvement and were so captivated by Dave’s performance that when he suggested, at one stage, that we might all draw closer they practically climbed in his pockets.

It was a terrific afternoon and Dave truly earned his title – Master Storyteller.

Sally Bavage writes:

Witty raconteur?  Life and soul of the party?  Dinner party leading light?  Thought not!  If you haven’t got one of those endless self-help books, then you should have come to this entertaining workshop giving hints and tips for those wishing to be any/all of the above, or intending teachers, or conference speakers …

One thing stood out amongst all the others at this afternoon event in the New Headingley Club – the sound of laughter.  Not polite, either – appreciative and joyful.  From first to last, Dave Tonge managed to coax a group of strangers to listen to him raptly, then interact with and perform to each other.

Tips on breathing, changes in voice, the use of gestures (appropriate for the age of the audience), the stance you use, using your eyes to capture and hold inclusive attention -  were all rehearsed.  The group tried telling a short story without using their hands or body movements – almost impossible.  Visualise the story you want to tell, chunk it down into comic-strip bite sizes – for if you The Narrator can ‘see’ the story then you can ensure your audience gets the picture too. And stories are pretty universal; there is not much alteration of the plotlines involved, more the adaptation of the tips above to carry the story to a mixed range of ages.

Record your story to hear it as a listener might, then refine it for pace, pitch and tone.  Write down keywords if it helps you to string it together coherently, using pauses and repeats to get the “Ooh”, the “Boo” and the “Hurrah” that you want. Above all, be yourself and share rather than perform.

Our Yarnsmith did indeed share and left a happy workshop wanting more. They got more too, as Dave went on to put his mouth where his tips were and, after tea and cake, led another session entitled Tavern Yard Tales. But that’s another story….

Our thanks to Leeds Voice Day who sponsored this event.