Tag Archives: The Rialto

PhD Musings: The Imperfect Victim/Imperfect Perpetrator

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As the stories have come out and are coming out about Harvey Weinstein and more and more women are speaking out, I’ve spent a lot of my time feeling sick, with feelings of nerves and anxiety.  I haven’t quite been able to work out why – I felt like I was over-identifying with the victims – I’ve never met Harvey Weinstein of course, and I’m unlikely ever to meet him.  It’s taken a few days to admit to myself that I’ve  met men like him my whole life, have learnt to deal/not deal with them, ignore them, laugh along, keep out of their way, or endured them.

In an article by Stephanie Boland she talks about the concept of the ‘imperfect victim’

You can read the whole article here
http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/article/harvey-weinstein-comment

Stephanie Boland writes:

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I was first groped. I only know it was on a minibus and that it was an older boy who rubbed the side of my breast by sticking his arm between my seat and the window. A group of them had teased me the whole journey — it was a camping trip and a long drive — and I’d played along. I’m good at playing along: good at mimicking the register of the banter, always quick with a comeback, able to suss out someone’s personality fast and get their mates laughing. Maybe you are, too. As I got off the bus, our chaperone asked if I was okay and I said yes, carsick, a little, and avoided the boy all weekend.

The concept of the imperfect victim is probably one that many women can identify with.  Throughout the course of my PhD, I’ve been looking back and examining my own life for experiences of sexism, but maybe a better way of describing them would be experiences of being the ‘imperfect victim’, and experiences of men who are ‘imperfect perpetrators’.  Men who are friends and continue to be so afterwards.  Men who are colleagues and continue to be so afterwards.  Men who are tutors, but just be sure to avoid them if they’ve had a drink.
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One of the many reasons it can be difficult for women to speak out is our own ideas of what the p perfect victim is (dressed modestly, not drunk, not walking home late at night alone) and how we match up to it, but also of what the ‘perfect’ perpetrator should be like (a stranger, violent, and only extreme assault ‘counting’).
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Over the next couple of days, I’ll be posting some poems around this theme.  The following poem is from a sequence I’m working on called ‘All The Men I Never Married’.
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Things I didn’t know before writing this poem:
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1) That something that happened to me when I was 17 had haunted me
2) That something almost happening can stay with you
3) That something happened
4) That my body did not let me down
5) That truth can be broken, and fragmented and this can make it more true
6) That I am both angry/not angry about it
//
One of the men in this poem, one of the boys  that this poem concerns sent me a Facebook friend request years later.  I accepted.  The act of doing this stirred up that near miss, that thing that almost but didn’t quite happen.  I wrote the poem. Afterwards,  I unfriended him without explanation.  The act of writing the poem helped me to realise what happened, what didn’t happen.
//
The idea of the ‘imperfect victim’ (drunk, at a party, wearing a skirt, going upstairs at a party, being alone, being alone with men, talking to men, being friends with a man) runs through this poem, as do ideas around imperfect perpetrators (a friend, a best friend, just having a laugh, boys will be boys, drunk).
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What happens afterwards? After the near/almost/notquite incident? Or after the poem? What do women carry with them? What did I/do I carry with me? Writing about these incidents might be a way of finding out.  This poem is full of air, and space, and silence, and things not said, not thought. What happens to conceptions of assault and what it is when I put a poem around it?
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This poem was published in the most recent issue of The Rialto, along with three more from the sequence ‘All The Men I Never Married’.    You can get a copy of the magazine from The Rialto website https://www.therialto.co.uk/pages/
rialto

All The Men I Never Married No.19

your dad handing out shots
////////////////bright green
/////////////////////////liquid sloshing
over the rim
//////////////onto my wrist
//////////////////////////steam on the windows
of the kitchen
////////////////and the living room
///////////////////////////////full of bodies
////////////////sitting in a circle
/////////////////////////////////your mother nowhere
get em down
/////////////you zulu warrior      
////////////////////////////get em down
you zulu chief chief chief
///////////////follows me
the singing
///////////////the dull thump of a bass
////////////////////////////////the staircase bending
and swaying
////////////////faraway bathroom
///////////////////////////////my hand on the bannister
to keep myself here
///////////////inside my body
///////////////////////////////inside this house
///////////////there’s darkness to my left
there you are///////////////////////////on a bed
//////////////in the dark
///////////////////////////////rolling a joint
////////////////////////////////////////////////hey babe you said
I liked/////////////////////that word on your lips
your friend
///////////////at the open window
//////////////////////////////letting smoke
slip out into the night
////////////////////////////////////////////////////it was good
to sit down
////////////////next to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////my bestfriend
first I was there
//////////////////////////////now I’m here
on the bed
////////////////on my back
//////////////////////////////////a naked woman
blu-tacked  and glossy///on the ceiling
/////////////////stares down at me from above
and the weight of you
/////////////////////////////////on top of me
and at first it’s funny
/////////////////as I try to get up
your knees////////////////////////////on my wrists
your hands///////////////////////////on my shoulders
that panic/////////////////////////////in my belly
I’ll remember it///////////////////as long as I live

your friend coming towards me
/////////////////////////////////his hand
on my breast
laughing///////////////////////////////both of you laughing

my knee    up   into your groin
////////you topple
/////////////////////like a small tree

and I’m up and out of the room
and into the night
where there are only stars
and the dark asks why
////////////////were you there in the dark
and the wind asks what
////////////////were you doing upstairs
and the moon asks why
////////////////were you wearing that skirt
but my body
////////////////my body asks nothing
just whispers
/////////////////////////////see
I did not let you down I did not
let you down I did not let you down

 

 

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Sunday Poem – Kate Wakeling

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Sunday Poem – Kate Wakeling

I had beautiful clear-white pages in my diary this week.  It has been the first week in ages I’ve not been gallivanting around the place.  I spent a large portion of it doing my tax return, or more accurately, filling in my spreadsheet so that I can work out what to put in my tax return.  I usually wait till the last possible moment to do my return as I hate doing it so much.  However, this year I was motivated by the possibility of getting some money back, now I’m a student.  I’ve pretty much finished it, but it took me most of the week, and I’m just letting it all settle before I file it on Monday.

So that hasn’t been much fun – on the other hand, it is heartening to know that I can make a living from poetry and that my freelance income has steadily increased over the last five or so years of working as a poet, without having to go out and look for work.  I feel very lucky that my work doesn’t feel like work, and I suppose filling in the tax return does bring that home.

I have managed to fit some PhD reading in though.  I’ve worked through three chapters of a book called Reading Poetry: An Introduction by Tom Furniss and Michael Bath.

The first chapter asks the reader to think about different poems about poetry and to articulate the theory of poetry they are promoting.  In the chapter Keats ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ and Blake’s ‘The Tyger’ are used as different examples of theories about creativity or poetry.  Other poems that I like that they ask you to read are ‘The Author to her Book‘ by Anne Bradstreet and Archibald MacLeish ‘Ars Poetica‘.

It reminded me that when I first wrote my poem ‘The Master Engraver’, Ann Sansom said something about the poem being really about writing poetry.  I remember being doubtful at the time – I’d listened to a program about engraver Graham Short on Radio 4 in my car, when one of my schools cancelled the lesson because the children were on a trip.  I was sitting in my car, wasting time before driving to my next school and it felt like my heart moved when I heard Graham’s description of his work and when that happens I have to write a poem.

When I wrote the poem I just wanted to write a poem about Graham Short.  In this textbook I’ve been reading though, the authors talk quite a bit about the problem of the ‘author’s intention’, that when we read poetry, we assume that the purpose is to discover the poet’s intention when writing it.  They talk about T.S Eliot and the New Critics differing approach to this, and quoting from the textbook here they argue that ‘a poem should be read on its own terms rather than in terms of author’s statements about his or her intentions when writing it’.

They then go on to outline four problems with the notion of authorial intention – the problem of access, the possibility that poets might deliberately mislead readers about their intentions or forget what their intentions were, that there may be meanings they did not consciously intend or were aware of, and lastly why the author’s intentions should be privileged over what the text itself says.

I’m quoting or paraphrasing briefly Reading Poetry: An Introduction here. The third problem, that there may be meanings they did not consciously intend or were aware of is the one that interests me at the moment, in relation to my own poem.  When I read it back now, it feels like my own theory of poetics or theory of creativity, which I wasn’t aware I was writing.

When Graham Short talked about waiting, of working late at night, of being completely alone, of this complete commitment, of requiring both the body and the mind to be controlled and focused, of it being hard work without it feeling like work, it was something I found deeply moving.  I never really thought about why, until now, but Ann’s comment has always sat in the back of my head, waiting to be unpacked and thought about, like all comments from the best of our teachers.

Does it matter that I didn’t write the poem meaning it to be a statement about writing poetry? I don’t think so -I think if I’d set out to write about writing poetry, it probably would have been a terrible poem.  My ignorance is probably what saved it!

You can find ‘The Master Engraver; in my pamphlet If We Could Speak Like Wolves and my first collection The Art of Falling (available from Seren at a discount of 50% till midnight tonight) or over at The Ofi Press magazine, where it was first published.

My one poetry outing this week was to the annual Simon Armitage reading in Grasmere.  It was a great atmosphere, I think people were really happy to be at a contemporary poetry reading again at The Wordsworth Trust, and obviously Simon Armitage was brilliant.  So brilliant in fact that due to chatting, I got to the book stall too late to buy his latest collection which was annoying. One of my Dove Cottage Young Poets read as well, Heather Hughes and went down really well.  She didn’t seem fazed at all by the large audience, and Simon even told her that his favourite line of hers ‘She claims to have slipped’ might end up in a poem of his.  Simon was one of my tutors on the MA and this moment of generosity towards a young writer didn’t surprise me, but I did think it was really lovely and I know it meant a lot to Heather.

Today’s Sunday Poem is from a fantastic pamphlet called The Rainbow Faults by Kate Wakeling, which was published in 2016 by The Rialto.  Kate kindly sent me a copy of this pamphlet in March.  I usually skim-read or speed-read things through once, and then if I like them, I put them to one side to read through at a slower pace, so I have two piles of books – ones to read and then ones to read again, which I acknowledge is a complicated way of running things, but I’m a very impatient reader when I read things first of all, especially if I like them straight away, I want to get to the end so I can read them again at a more leisurely pace.  So that is why Kate’s pamphlet has been languishing on my ‘read-again-more-slowly’ pile.

The poem I’ve chosen is ‘Looking Glass’ which just resonated with me straight away.  It picks up on a lot of the things I’ve been reading about form and content in this large textbook I’m wading through, and the more I pick at this poem, the more I like it.

First of all, I love the clever use of verbs in this poem.  The woman ‘sees’ a skeleton.  She ‘sees the beggared skull’.  The skeleton ‘watches’ the woman, and ‘watches her glazed cheek.’  I know ‘sees’ and ‘watches’ are very close in meaning, but for me ‘sees’ is much more passive, whereas ‘watching’ implies action, I think it also implies a kind of knowing or judgement.  This fits with the next line when the woman ‘startles at her blank-boned future’ but the skeleton ‘Wonders at the fallow of her peachiness’.  The skeleton seems detached and in control, the woman is reacting, as if she is one step behind.  I suppose this also fits with the idea of the woman looking toward her future (the skeleton) whereas the skeleton is looking back.

The form of this poem fits brilliantly with the content as well.  The stanzas are a slanted reflection of each other as well.  It’s significant that the poet chose not to put them side by side on the page – they are disjointed.  This is a looking glass, but it is not reflecting reality.  A woman looks into a mirror and sees a skeleton.  A skeleton looks out and watches a woman.  Each line also reflects a later line in the poem, the same but different, an example of parallelism, not exact repetition, but repetition with difference.

The last two lines of this first stanza make me think this poem is about anorexia, which fits with the looking glass not reflecting reality – the wanting of ‘this scrubbed fossil self’, and the creepiness of the ‘sticky breath’ of a demon.  That disgust in the ‘sticky breath’ also fits with concerns of eating or not eating, as does some of the words used in the second stanza, the ‘fallow of her peachiness’ and her ‘glazed cheek’.  There are a few words associated with food here actually.

And the last two lines of the second stanza are just as disturbing.  The skeleton is ‘quick with fatigue at the slog of her pulse’ – so being alive is exhausting.  The last line I’m still puzzling and turning over in my mind.  The implication is that it is the skeleton who ‘looses thrilled surrender across vacant ribs.’  Again this makes me think about eating, or not eating, this emptiness of the ‘vacant ribs’.

If you’ve enjoyed this poem, you can buy a copy of Kate’s poem from The Rialto here

Kate Wakeling grew up in Yorkshire and Birmingham.  She studied music at Cambridge University and the School of Oriental and African Studies, and works as an ethnomusicologist at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music & Dance and as writer-in-residence with Aurora Orchestra.  Her poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies including The Rialto, Magma, Oxford Poetry, The Best British Poetry 2014 (Salt) and The Forward Book of Poetry 2016.

 

Looking Glass – Kate Wakeling

Woman looks at mirror
Sees skeleton
Sees the beggared skull
Startles at her blank-boned future
Is dense with want for this scrubbed fossil self
Feels sticky breath of demon at her elbow

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))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Skeleton looks out of mirror
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Watches woman
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Watches her glazed cheek
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Wonders at the fallow of her peachiness
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Is quick with fatique at the slog of her pulse
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))Looses thrilled surrender across vacant ribs

Sunday Poem – Emily Blewitt

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Sunday Poem – Emily Blewitt

It’s been a pretty full-on week this week!  Yesterday I had a lovely poetry marathon, like I used to in the Olden Days.  I started off doing 5k at park run – I thought I would have a good go and see how much fitness I’ve lost because of this ridiculous IT band injury which is hopefully (touch wood) gone now.  I did 23 and a half minutes which I’m pretty pleased with – and more importantly no knee pain! Hurrah etc.

After park run I went to Grasmere to the Poetry Business Pamphlet Competition reading.  Three of the four winning poets were there.  I enjoyed the reading, but it was bloody freezing in the Jerwood Centre, to the point where I actually found it hard to concentrate.  I haven’t been there for so long I forgot how cold it is – good for Wordsworth’s manuscripts but not good for poetry audiences.  I bought all of the four pamphlets though so I will peruse them in the warmth and comfort of my own house.

In the evening we had our June Poem and a Pint event at Greenodd Village Hall.  What a brilliant night it was.  We had lots of people turning up to read on the Open Mic, brilliant music from Bradyll Friends, an acapella choir and Emily Berry, our guest poet was absolutely brilliant.  Her first set was quite funny, she uses a dry irony in her work which I love.  The second set from her latest book Stranger, Baby I found really moving.  I’ve just reviewed Stranger, Baby for the next issue of ‘Under the Radar’ magazine,  along with another fantastic collection by Sabrina Mahfouz called How You Might Know Me.  

I went on a training course to learn how to use EndNote at the beginning of the week at uni. This software will hopefully make doing the bibliography and referencing side of things for my critical work much easier.   I’ve got to hand in 5000 words to my supervisor next week, and I’ve been steadily progressing with it.  This is a bit weird, but I’ve actually really enjoyed using EndNote to do my references.  I’ve also really enjoyed writing the 5000 words.  If I take out of the equation my anxiety about whether I’m doing it ‘right’, if I forget about worrying whether I’m any good at it or not, if that has nothing to do with it at all, then I’ve absolutely loved doing the writing.

Also at the beginning of the week, I had a meeting about the 2018 Kendal Poetry Festival.  Yes, it actually never ends, and although we are still finishing the report for this year’s festival, we are already having to start thinking and planning for next year’s festival! It was a really positive meeting however, and I’m already feeling a little bit excited about next year.  Last week, I was full of what I am going to refer to as festival fatigue – this week, I feel much better, more myself and almost ready to do it all again.

Mid week I had my Annual Review Meeting with the lovely Helen Mort.  Helen was so enthusiastic about my project, and it was great to have a chance to talk through how the year has gone. As part of the review, I had to upload evidence of what I’ve been doing, so I gathered together the poems I’ve written this year – I think there were about 27 of them, which I’m not sure if that sounds like a lot or not.  Helen is probably the first person to read them all together and she was so positive and encouraging about them that I came away feeling a lot more confident in my own work.

I found out last week that I’ve had four of my ‘All The Men I Never Married’ poems accepted for publication in the next issue of The Rialto, which I’m really pleased about – and I think that’s about it for my news!

Today’s Sunday Poem is by the fabulous Emily Blewitt, who I met when she came on a residential course that I ran quite a while ago now at Abbot Hall in Grange Over Sands.  I thought she was a fantastic poet back then, so I was really happy for her when I found that my publisher Seren were publishing her first collection.

Emily was born in Carmarthen, Wales.  She studied at Oxford and York, and has a PhD from Cardiff University, where she specialised in poetic representations of pregnancy in nineteenth century and contemporary women’s writing.  She has published poetry in The Rialto, Ambit, Poetry Wales, The Interpreter’s House, Furies, Hinterland, Brittle Star and Cheval.  Her first full-length collection This Is Not A Rescue was published by Seren a few months ago.  The title poem of the collection was Highly Commended in the 2016 Forward Prizes in the Best Published Poem category.

I took this poem to a session I ran with Dove Cottage Young Poets and it went down really well.  The young poets really liked the poem, and they wrote some fantastic response poems to it as well.  I really like the one line statements, and the way the voice of the dance teacher is both sustained and developed throughout the poem.  As the poem goes on, the personality of the teacher and the relationship between the teacher and the student becomes more apparent.

Everything seems professional until the sixth line ‘If you don’t like me smoking, sit over there’ which says so much in so few words! We know the student doesn’t like smoking.  We know the dance teacher doesn’t care, but not in a horrible way.  I think we get a sense of the time period as well – some time in the 80s perhaps, when smoking teachers could still get away with it.

That line ‘You’re blushing again’ is wonderfully understated as well, showing the growing awareness of the student of her own body.  I think the use of phrases and cliches here works really well, such as ‘If you don’t use it you lose it’ and ‘It takes a bit of grit to make a pearl.’

Although there is a level of inappropriateness here in some of the lines, things  I wouldn’t say as a teacher, such as ‘You’re as flat-chested as I am’ – for me there is still a deep level of affection there, particularly in lines such as ‘You remind me of me when I was your age’.  There is also humour as well of course ‘If I had my time again, I’d be a historian.’  The teachers seems like a real character, who both uses well worn phrases and cliches, and then comes out with unexpected and random things.

I would really recommend ordering this collection.  If there was any justice it should be on a First Collection shortlist but even if it doesn’t make it on to one, buy it anyway! You can get it with 20% off from the Seren website here.


Things My Dance Teacher Used to Say – Emily Blewitt

Chassés are chasing steps

To spiral, you spin slowly and trail your pointed foot

Practise standing on one leg

Use contrary body motion

Your arms should show control and musical interpretation

If you don’t like me smoking, sit over there

It shouldn’t burn

Keep your eyes up

You’re blushing again

You’re as flat-chested as I am

If you don’t use it you lose it

If you don’t click this time, there’s something wrong with you

You’re too naive

You’re not afraid to swing those hips

I was a loose cannon

I used to sprint barefoot at school

You remind me of me when I was your age

If I had my time again, I’d be a historian

Use resistance

It takes a bit of grit to make a pearl

Sunday Poem – Kim Moore

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Evening all!  I’ve had one of those weeks that feels like you’re barely holding on to the reins of a horse that I have no idea of how to control other than to hold on for dear life.  This was my first proper week back into teaching and it was full on straight away.  Monday was the Barrow Shipyard Junior Band’s first rehearsal of this academic year as well and they turned out in force and with enthusiasm and excitement and daftness.  I love that they are so excited to see each other but I was slightly wrong footed last week – usually the first rehearsal is quiet till things get going so I was expecting an easier time of it but this week I’m ready for them – armed an arrangement of Dr Who and not afraid to use it!

After band I sped off to Dalton to the back room of a pub and did a rehearsal with Soul Survivors, the new Soul Band I’m playing with, which was really enjoyable.  It’s starting to sound really good now – although I did feel for the poor bar maid, having to listen to the same song, over and over again.

Tuesday was another full day of teaching, not finishing till 5pm with another band practice and Tuesday was officially meant to be our Exchange day.  However for various excruciating and boring reasons it didn’t happen, hasn’t happened and I think Scotland will be independent before I move out of my house and into my new one. On Tuesday night I went to Barrow Writers and took one of my running poems to get feedback on.  Just the act of reading it aloud made me realise I was being indulgent and gave me some ideas of where to cut it down a little.  On Tuesday Alison Brackenbury and David Scott were reading in Grasmere, which I was sad to miss, as I was looking forward to it, but we desperately needed a meeting for Poem and a Pint in advance of our event on Saturday and after Barrow Writers was the only time everybody could make.

Now I was remonstrated with yesterday by Martin Copley because my blog, has, apparently become too full of Running Talk which he is not a fan of at all.  So this will be a test to see if he has read up to here – if you have Martin, HELLO! And if you haven’t, well that Martin Copley has the loyalty of a fish is all I can say and I can continue to tell you about Wednesday, when I did the Ulverston 5k race and managed to complete 5k in 22 minutes and 54 seconds, thus meeting my self-imposed target of running said event in less than 23 minutes, so that was very exciting for me.

More excitingly, the husband ran it with me, and as he doesn’t run very much, I thought it would be easy to kick his butt and glory in my victory.  However I didn’t bank on his hiking/cycling stamina and realised he was right next to me at the 4th kilometre and what’s worse was even trying to beat me! How rude is that.  Here is a photo of us finishing the race – and if you have to ask whether he managed to beat me, you clearly don’t know me at all!

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On Thursday I spent the whole day doing admin things for my poetry work – sending invoices, planning the ‘Early Morning Writing Workshop’ for Ilkley Literature Festival – there is a link here if you fancy booking yourself on.  I’m really excited about the poems I’ve found for this workshop.  I also finally, and slightly late completed a short article about Sylvia Plath which I’d been asked to write by Artemis.  The rest of Thursday was spent eating, walking the dogs and going running to try and get Wednesday out of my legs which I don’t think worked well because my legs felt really heavy for the rest of the week.

On Friday I planned my Young Writers workshop in the morning and then went off to Kendal to deliver the workshop – there was a new member this week who seems very nice.  Due to cuts in funding, the Young Writers Group will only be running every other week from now on, which is sad, but at least it can keep functioning.

On Saturday my legs were too heavy and I was worried about a little twinge in my hamstring from my Wednesday exertions so I didn’t do park run, but just went for a very slow run with Chris and the dogs instead and then spent the rest of Saturday tidying my rather scruffy house up ready for the arrival of Rhian Edwards, who was the guest poet at Poem and a Pint last night.  I also edited my running poem at the last minute to read as my MC’s poem – I’m still not completely happy with it, but am glad that I gave it a first airing.

Poor Rhian had a six hour journey to get here from South Wales which involved a replacement bus service as well, but I think that even the rigours of travel were nothing compared to looking after a young baby and she assured me she’d actually had quite a nice journey!  Rhian was fabulous at Poem and a Pint – I particularly enjoyed hearing her new poems about birds and folklore and the body and transformation – something very close to my heart at the minute and I can’t wait to see them in print.

After Poem and a Pint we went for a curry and stuffed ourselves with poppadoms and then came back and gossiped till about 2 in the morning which didn’t seem excessive at the time, but when I woke up this morning, definitely did.  To make matters worse, we then continued to gossip till 9.35 when I suddenly realised what the time was and bundled Rhian into the car to get her to Ulverston for 10am so she could get her replacement bus service back to Preston and then on to South Wales.

For the rest of the day I’ve been playing at the Beech Hill Hotel Wedding Fayre with the South Lakes Brass Ensemble. It was our first experience of playing at a wedding fayre and it was fairly quiet and low-key.  I don’t know if it will lead to any bookings, but we did get some free pieces of wedding cake from the other stalls and a magician turned a piece of paper into a Ferrero Rocher (is that how you spell it?) for me so that was rather exciting.

I was also supposed to be moving on Monday but – well I won’t say that solicitors, estate agents and mortgage brokers are all incompetent, but I think somehow the ones I have found have proved themselves to be exactly that, so moving on Monday is now off, and we are waiting for them to suggest a date.  We have gone on strike and said we are not suggesting dates because it doesn’t seem to work.

And that was my week! Due to a complete lack of organisation, I haven’t got a Sunday Poem for tonight.  So I’m having to put one of my own in, which is against all the rules, as this is supposed to be about poems that I’ve read that I like, not my own poems.  However, desperate times call for desperate measures.  Things will resume normal service by next week I hope.

On Twitter this week I discovered another poet, Simon Barraclough who also plays the trumpet which excited me tremendously as I’ve not met another trumpet playing poet before.  This came about when Holly Hopkins mentioned my poem ‘The Curse of the Trumpet Teacher’ which was published in a recent issue of The Rialto.

So I thought I would post the poem up here, for anybody that is interested, with a link to The Rialto, which not only is a magazine which smells good and looks beautiful but it also has great poetry in as well and I’m sure would be very welcoming of any of you taking out a subscription to support the publication of great poetry.

The Trumpet Teacher’s Curse – Kim Moore

A curse on the children who tap the mouthpiece
with the heel of their hand to make a popping sound,
who drop the trumpet on the floor then laugh,
a darker curse on those who fall with a trumpet
in their hands and selfishly save themselves,
a curse on the boy who dropped a pencil
on the bell of his trombone to see if it did
what I said it would, a curse on the girl
who stuffed a pompom down her cornet
and then said it was her invisible friend who did it,
a curse on the class teacher who sits at the back
of the room and does her paperwork,
a curse on the teacher who says ‘I’m rubbish at music’
in a loud enough voice for the whole class to hear,
a curse on the father who coated his daughter’s trumpet valves
with Vaseline because he thought it was the thing to do,
a curse on the boy who threw up in his baritone
as if it was his own personal bucket.
Let them be plagued with the urge to practice
every day without improvement, let them play
in concerts each weekend which involve marching
and outdoors and coldness, let their family be forced
to give up their Saturdays listening to bad music
in village halls or spend their Sundays at the bandstand,
them, one dog and the drunk who slept there the night before
taking up the one and only bench, gods, let it rain.