Diary of a Foyle Young Poet 2010
Tales from this year's week-long residential course at the Arvon Centre, from one of the lucky winners of the 2009 competition, Phoebe Power.
Monday
I arrived at the
Tuesday
We met in the Ted Hughes room at 9.30, where we were split into two groups. Half of us stayed with Caroline, and the others went with Lemn to the Foyle Studio, a converted barn packed with poetry books. Caroline did a series of exercises with us, including one where we wrote a poem inspired by ‘A Fragrant Cloud’ by James Tate, and another where we imagined a time capsule had been found containing things from our life. At the end of every exercise we read out our work, which gave me more confidence in my writing, and it was interesting to see how others had interpreted the task. We stopped for lunch at 12.30, with a bit of time to relax until 2pm, when the groups swapped and my half worked with Lemn.
In Caroline’s workshop we had written several quite spontaneous poems in a short space of time, whereas Lemn had a different, but equally exciting approach. He led us through the careful craft of a single poem about someone we loved, giving us a structure and rhyme scheme to follow. With Lemn’s help, we teased out the precise nuances we needed. It was wonderful to be given time to explore something very personal, while improving our skills of creating original, powerful imagery. At 4.30 the evening’s cooks got started, while the rest of us chatted, or edited and typed up our work. Each night there was a team of three or four to cook, with the cooks for the following day washing up. Tried-and-tested recipes were used (all delicious), and it was a brilliant way of working with other people, and relaxing with a practical task after a day of thinking. After dinner, Lemn and Caroline performed their work. They were both fantastic, and showed how poetry can swallow an audience with a great performance or reading, even while it works equally well on the page.
Wednesday
A second day of workshops. With Lemn we wrote a poem starting with ‘Let there be…’ with some brilliant work being produced by everyone, including poems based on ‘Let there be Sin’, ‘Let there be Secrecy’ and ‘Let there be Longing’. Caroline gave us another set of tasks, including a poem about our perception of contemporary life that started, ‘I’m being told’. We also did an interesting exercise where Caroline read out a list of unusual words (such as ‘baleful’ and ‘calcium’) and we had to mould a poem around them. It was intriguing to see how the words caused certain ideas to rise to the surface. In the evening a guest poet came to perform, Luke Wright. He performed brilliantly, and like Caroline and Lemn, you could trace his unique style, which encouraged me to write in my own way without worrying, because it was clear how important honesty is in poetry.
Thursday
There were one-to-one tutorials throughout the day, each lasting half and hour. The tutors were positive, understanding and helpful, scrutinising every piece of work I showed them. During the rest of the day, we had time to work on their suggestions, redraft and edit the poems written in the workshops, print them out and read them to each other. We were also busy flicking through poetry books, finding favourite poems to read after dinner. They were either known from before the course, or discovered during the week, and hearing other people’s choices was an insight into new authors and poems. I read ‘The Circle’ by Don Paterson and ‘You’re’ by Sylvia Plath, which was invaluable practice for reading my own poetry the next evening.
Friday
In preparation for later, in the morning Lemn and Caroline ran a performance workshop. Caroline gave us some dramatic phrases such as ‘We need to talk’ to include in an improvised sketch. After half an hour each group performed their piece, and they were all hilarious and imaginative. Lemn and Caroline then gave us lots of advice on reading poetry aloud in front of an audience. In the afternoon were more tutorials, and time to polish our poems ready for the evening. We gave a selection of poems to Melissa, Hannah and Phoebe Walker, who were the ‘curators’ for a special exhibition in the Ted Hughes room. All the furniture was moved, and lengths of string put up. Everyone’s poems were hung from the string or stuck on the wall, and the lights turned off. With a beautiful piece of music by Sibelius playing, everyone entered with torches and read the poems in silence. It was a lovely way to read poetry, and established the perfect atmosphere for the reading that followed.
In the Foyle Studio, everyone read a couple of pieces of their best work. All the poems were phenomenal, and I loved hearing the variety of styles. Afterwards, Lemn and Caroline encouraged us all to continue writing at all costs. They explained the importance of creativity, and their words uplifted and instilled me with new energy for writing.
As well as giving my poetry space to develop, the course also gave me a set of lovely new friends! Poetry is essentially our thoughts and feelings in the truest way we can represent them, and sharing this meant there was a wonderful openness and trust in the group. By the end of the week, I loved everyone and felt as if I had known them all my life. The casual, non-competitive atmosphere made it easy to write honestly without feeling self-conscious, and this was reflected in the work.
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2009
Tales from this year's week-long residential course at the Arvon Centre, from one of the lucky winners of the 2008 competition, Michael Kalisch.
Tuesday
First day at the Hurst and it has flown by. We woke up sleepy and groggy - well I did at least after having spent a good deal of the night chatting and getting to know each other a little better. However, we were soon energised, to a point, by the early-rising Ian McMillan, who herded us all into the Foyle Studio (“Don’t call it a barn whatever you do!”) for a morning of poetry exercise and exploration.
From 9.30 till 1(ish), we were treated to an intense workshop consisting of an array of writing exercises, reading and analysis led by the self-styled “good cop-bad cop” duo - say which one is which at your peril - of Eva (Salzman) and Ian. Whilst hard work, this workshop was immensely rewarding, and by the end the majority of us already felt we had the beginning to a promising poem or two. For many of us, myself included, this was the longest period of time we had sat down for just to write poetry - it was a rare and most welcome luxury to be given that space to work.
After the heartiest of hearty lunches we were itching to get to work on the ideas borne out of the morning’s workshop, and we all quickly scuttled off to find a quiet spot from which to work. The beautiful rural setting of the Hurst made finding a tranquil patch outside very easy, and soon, walking through the woodland that surrounds the site, one could see young poets dotted about on hillsides, tree branches and by the lake, busily scribbling in notebooks. Much of the afternoon was left aside for writing, broken up with 20 minute tutorials-or 40 minutes in Eva’s case, who got a little too into it! This proved to be a very sensible and productive arrangement - we were given the freedom to work individually, yet the tutorials also provided structure and focus, giving you something to work towards.
From 4.30, four people are designated to cook the evening’s meal - a recipe for disaster (sorry, awful pun)! Well, judging by the exemplary cuisine served up, most definitely not: truly delicious.
After exploring the vast and diverse collection of books at the Hurst, we gathered in the Ted Hughes Room for the evening’s treat - Ian and Eva reading their own work. What was most interesting was to see the contrast in these two eminent contemporary poets’ work and reading style. Ian’s set, complete with slapstick gags and a sing along chorus, was a hilarious poetic romp, clever, honest and at times poignant. It was arresting to compare the playful joviality of Ian’s verse to the witty, often ironic and understated dynamic of Eva’s work. Personally, having read some of Eva’s poetry before, it was revelation to hear how she delivered her own work. A real treat.
Wednesday
Wednesday, and after a night of guitar-fuelled revelry led by the immensely talented Rowan and Jonny, its back to the barn-eh, I mean “Studio”- for another morning of poetic experimentation and exploration: I sort of wish that every school day started like this. Experimenting with form and rhythm today, the workshop once again bore some useful and interesting ideas.
Lunch was followed by something a little daring, a little audacious, a little… “out there” - a group trip to the big, bad village of Clun to stock up on essentials (Milky Ways and sticky toffees). Mentioned by Housman in 'A Shropshire Lad' (“In valleys of springs and rivers / By Ony and Teme and Clun,”), Clun is a, um, quaint, peaceful village, rather sleepy - one could probably hear it faintly snoring in fact at night - and was perhaps, it seemed, a bit of a shock to those members of the group from London and Manchester. However, as a Devonshire lad myself, I must admit Clun seemed to be a rather bustling, happening place.
Certainly, Clun provided poetic inspiration – as well confectionary delights - and it was back to the notebooks and tutorials for the remainder of the afternoon.
It was around half past six when something odd happened. I was outside with Adham, admiring the vibrantly clear Shropshire night sky and making up alternative constellations, when a figure appeared, emerging slowly from the darkness of the path. As the figure drew nearer, we could make out a slender, tall, rather dashing older gentleman, all corduroy and tweed.
“I’m Hugo” he said, “Who are you?”. Hugo Williams, well-known poet and journalist, winner of the 1999 T.S. Eliot Prize was going to be reading for us tonight. I must admit I was a little bedazzled, having greatly enjoyed his fantastic collection Billy’s Rain, to meet one of my favourite poets. I therefore no doubt appeared a little dumb and slow-witted as he chatted politely to us. He told Adham and I of his trip to Clun, how he had stopped off at the “Museum of Lost Content” (another Housman reference- “That is the land of lost content / I see it shining plain,”), “Which was, no doubt significantly,” he said, “closed”.
After dinner (again fantastic - the food really is top notch) we gathered once again in the Ted Hughes room and waited for Mr Williams. We were treated to a fantastic selection of Mr William’s poems, most on the subject of his time as a boy at Eton. Entertaining, amusing and poignant, listening to Mr William’s was the unquestionable highlight of the week for me. As a reader and speaker, he was modest, enigmatic with a dry sense of humour - I felt immensely fortunate to be one of such a small audience at this memorable reading.
Thursday
Thursday, and it has been a case of back to work. Aware that we have to produce an anthology of our week’s work for Friday evening, many of us are fine-tuning and tweaking poems written earlier in the week (Mr Jack Snoddy has been an example to us all - has an immense and enviable patience for self-editing), as well as adding new ideas to burgeoning notebooks. The workshop was again an illuminating and rewarding experience, and I believe many of us feel that we have come on a great deal during the week.
After lunch however, an albatross looms large above my head, so to speak. I am on cooking duty tonight. As 4.30 rolls by I make my way to the kitchen. Walking to collect my apron, I imagine that this is what the final walk on Death Row feels like; or perhaps this is how John Terry felt as he walked from the half way line to take that penalty on that fateful Moscow night. This may seem a little dramatic; but cooking and me do not go well together. In year 8 at school I was excused Food Technology class because of my “staggering incompetence” - a crushing comment for a thirteen-year-old boy, though one would conclude fair after tasting my Bakewell tarts.
Anyway, I donned the apron, took a deep breath and volunteered for what I thought sounded like the most low profile job - chopping vegetables. I promptly set about slaughtering a pepper. “Eh, Mike, that’s actually a bread knife you’re using”, Colin points out. Oh. Right. That explains it. After this initial hiccup, however, I sort of got the hang of it. True, I probably averaged about three peppers an hour but still, I was quietly pleased with my contribution.
After dinner and a touch more star gazing, it was time for something a little special-dance lessons with Eva. This brought about one of the funniest sights known to man - Ian McMillan attempting to salsa. Enthusiastic? Certainly. Graceful? Umm…..I must admit I didn’t fair much better, ending up sort of doing a sideways shimmy followed by a spasm of the back - I fear I’ve inherited my father’s dance moves.
Friday
Friday and its anthology day. Knowing that we all have to produce something that at least resembles poetry for the much talked about anthology, there is an extra focus and zeal to our work in the morning’s workshop - put it down to fear. An editorial team has been assembled, with old-hand Amy at the helm, and throughout the day she runs an impressively tight ship, employing a network of bureaucrats to do typing and even some heavies to chase up poets who haven’t “paid up” in the form of a piece for the anthology.
Amidst the general confusion and panic, there is however, an oasis of calm, a solitary figure who stands apart from the tumult: one Mr Adham Smart, who, perhaps to mark the end of the week, has complimented his now obligatory fez with an impressive goatee beard, fashioned with some creative use of a marker pen. He is a sight to behold, and in normal circumstances I’d be a little taken aback, perhaps even tempted to ask such stupid questions as, “Why?” But I feel no such urge here at the Hurst; here, it seems normal, everyday-one comes to expect such things.
As the day progresses, things pull together, and the anthology finally starts to take shape. With all pieces now collected and typed up, there is only the small issue of photocopying and stapling. A simple task? Well, one would think so, but it actually proves to be something of a nightmare, and one is reminded of that well known, age old joke; how many Foyle Young Poets does it take to operate a photocopying machine? It turns out there are two answers: fourteen, or just one in particular, Mr Adham Smart. With a Zen-like calmness, Mr Smart single-handedly battles the photocopier and comes out victorious.
True it did take a good few hours, but by 10.30, the anthology, finished with a wonderful front cover courtesy of arty Abigail, was complete. It was then over to the Ted Hughes room, where we all read our work from the anthologies; a wonderful way to mark the end of the week.
Saturday
Saturday, and after saying all my goodbyes, it is back to Devon for me, after a wonderful, inspirational week. Coming back into the real world has been a strange thing after the Arvon course, rather like waking up from a dream: a beautiful dream in which, in the valley of Housman’s “blue remembered hills”, one could sit and write and discuss poetry for hours, and where men wore fezzes with goatee beards; a place where you and your work are made to feel valued and appreciated. One question remains - Can I go again please?
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