The Poetry Society Poetry Surgery - with Kona Macphee

Kona Macphee

This is a wonderful opportunity to discuss your poems on a one-to-one basis with poet and tutor Kona Macphee.

Now taking bookings for:

Wednesday 21 April 2010

12pm - 1pm
1pm - 2pm
2.30pm - 3.30pm
3.30pm - 4.30pm
4.45pm - 5.45pm

There are 5 slots available per day and each lasts 1 hour. You will be asked to send your poems (up to 6 poems, or 150 lines maximum) no later than 2 weeks before the event, plus a brief accompanying note describing why you write poetry, what you hope to do with your writing and what you hope to gain from the Surgery.

£30 for Poetry Society members, £40 for non-members (cheques made payable to the Poetry Society or call with your credit card/debit card details).

Each session will take place at the Scottish Poetry Library, Edinburgh. http://www.spl.org.uk/

To book, please contact Paul McGrane
020 7420 9881 or membership (at) poetrysociety.org.uk
22 Betterton Street, London WC2H 9BX

Feedback from Kona's previous sessions:

The fact that Kona is someone whose work is respected and who took the process seriously is important, but, also, I think the benefit of paying for the session is that you don't feel you are imposing your work on someone, asking them to do you a favour, which is great. Pauline Beaumont, Newcastle

It was nice to get the chance to have this type of session north of the border - I should think that other areas would feel the same. Aileen Lobban, Edinburgh

I felt that the session with Kona was a wonderful experience. I thought her feedback and encouragement was excellent and overall it was an inspirational session for me. So thanks again for making it available. Jane Aldous, Edinburgh

Thank you so much for the session. I was relieved that you quickly got on with the detail. The points you made were spot-on; especially regarding tenses, imagery and the need to achieve overall coherence and meaning. Alan Gay, East Lothian

Kona is a sensitive and articulate reviewer & I enjoyed meeting her and gaining insights into her view of poetry. Sue Spencer, Newcastle

Kona Macphee was born in London and grew up in Melbourne, Australia, where she flirted with occupations including composer, violinist, waitress, motorcycle mechanic and computer scientist. She now lives in rural Scotland, and provides poetry tutoring and critiquing for the Poetry Society, HI-Arts and The Poetry School. Kona received an Eric Gregory Award for her poetry in 1998. Her debut collection Tails was published by Bloodaxe in 2004, and her second collection Perfect Blue is out in February 2010. www.konamacphee.com.   

Interview with Kona Macphee

'Cholera', from Perfect Blue, was chosen as The Saturday Poem in The Guardian, 27 February 2010

Kona Macphee Perfect Blue Kona Macphee
Perfect Blue
Bloodaxe or Amazon UK or Amazon US
£7.95 paperback, 64pp
ISBN: 978 1 85224 866 6
Available from 25 February 2010
Read extracts and listen to audio recordings at http://pb.konamacphee.com/index.php

Kona Macphee
Taking Her In

For Fiona

You're taking her in, your mottled little sister,
splayed on the lap of the capable nurse
with relatives flanking her fever. Outside
late November is leaf-fall and frost,
the ground blotchy, matching her face
for raddled texture, the close of a season.
 
Tilted aslant to the window, you're playing
a game with your eyes, you're trying to catch
the car becalmed, the world in progress
backwards, the other way, back home.
You're not there yet, not nearly there
when the nurse looks up. She's gone. I'm so sorry.
 
The car stops. Your breath stops. Everything stops.
Such stillness in that car, you'd swear it's there
for good, you feel the stalled wheels sinking anchors.
Your uncle gets out, seeking a telephone,
seeking advice, and you see the adults
are no more certain than you what comes now.
 
Uphill, a postman cycles past - the one
who gave her peppermints, who'll take a cord
and guide her through that fine slot into earth?
He glides on the skyline, his cobweb wheels
tumbling against his progress, and is gone.
You stare as though he might spool by again.
 
It's colder, darker, and now there's a wind.
You're glad of the hood of the car, a shield
to the cryptically gesturing skeleton trees.
You wish you could drag that steel lid lower,
wear it like a carapace, a metal skin,
haul your limbs and head and heart right in.
 
Finally, your uncle returns: the door
squeals on its ailing hinge. There's a pause;
nobody speaks; you hear his loops of breath
as you, he, all of you, reel yourselves in.
At last he turns to the seats behind.
We'll go back, he says. But of course you can't.