Leave a Comment · Posted on December 7, 2018
I’m still struggling with a dodgy elbow but, while that’s recovering (or doing its best to) here’s long time friend of the blog and brilliant human, William Rycroft, on theatre. (He has a book out too, All Quiet on the West End Front. Details at the bottom…)
Christmas. Season of goodwill, comfort and joy. Time to gather with the family; eat, drink and be merry. Or at least that’s the theory. Are you going to see a show over the holidays? A panto perhaps? A musical? A show for the kids? Whilst many businesses can wind things down over Christmas, Theatreland speeds up, if anything; building into a frenzy of extra performances to meet the demand for family entertainment. So, if you’re off to see something this festive period, I want you to spare a thought for those sweaty performers on stage. They might be as nutty as the walnuts in the bottom of your stocking.
You see, most acting companies are used to an ‘eight-show week’ – performances each weeknight, two on Saturday and a mid-week matinee. Eight shows a week takes its toll, especially if you’re doing it for forty-eight weeks of the year. That’s what I did during my time at War Horse in the West End. Eight shows a week, forty-eight weeks a year, for four and a half years. Longer than the actual First World War. Except of course at least once a year, on top of all that, we’d have to enter the mythical territory of the – drum roll please – ‘nine-show week’.
Pantomimes famously have insane schedules with two or even three shows a day but those runs are at least limited to a fixed period over Christmas. You buckle up, give it your all for a few weeks and if you’re the celebrity drafted in to get bums on seats you buy yourself a new house afterwards. Over at War Horse, an extra matinee in the week before or after Christmas, coming after an arduous year, might have been enough to tip some of us over the cliff-edge of sanity and into the precipice of mixed metaphors.
So how did we cope? Well, Christmas is all about family, and if work kept me away from my actual relatives until the day itself, then I was lucky enough to have a company of people around me that functioned like a slightly dysfunctional surrogate. You support each other with concern, kind words, back rubs and post show drinks. You eat festive treats, hang decorations and observe the most important ritual of any work-based Christmas: Secret Santa. In the West End, we’d heard that musical companies would often get some kind of celebrity in to play the role of Santa. No such glamour for us. Each year, those gifts were handed out by a member of the company dressed up as some kind of bastardised version of Father Christmas. Usually avuncular, often vaguely seedy, it’s a unique Christmas when ‘Santa’ is wearing a form of red tunic/WWI uniform hybrid.
And the same rule applied at this time of year as any other: no matter how exhausted you might’ve been when the show began and the company assembled onstage for the opening song, looking out into a sea of a thousand expectant faces had the effect of filling you with the energy required to do the show justice and to tell them that important story. This is even more the case when the audience is filled with children. Your responsibility isn’t just to tell the story; this may be their first time in the theatre and its within your power to enchant them with its possibilities or turn them off for life. So you take a deep breath, look out to them all, and remember what the words you’re singing really mean – ‘Only remembered for what we have done…’
So have a good Christmas, enjoy the show and, if you think they deserve it, then a standing ovation is a great way to send actors off for Christmas with a spring in their step.
1 Comment · Posted on November 21, 2018
Very quick post from me today (I’m nursing a very sore arm) but… a little while ago my good, old friend, Charles Christian, asked me if I’d come on the radio and talk writing advice. So I have. And you can listen to it here. I’m about 15 minutes in.
2 Comments · Posted on November 19, 2018
And we’re back to letting you know about good new stuff today. It’s a pleasure to welcome Freya J Morris here, whose new collection, This is (Not About) David Bowie, published by Retreat West, is out now. And, specifically, she’s talking about finding her voice. So giver her your ears…
Finding your voice
On this day three years ago, Bowie released the song BLACKSTAR. A song that inspired the story ‘Lifeline’ in my collection: This is (not about) David Bowie. He sings about not being a popstar or a marvel star, not being a gangstar or a filmstar – He is a blackstar, born the wrong way around.
Don’t we all feel a bit like that? That we’ve been born a bit wrong? If there’s one thing that Bowie embodies – it’s giving yourself permission to be who you really are. To find your voice. That’s something writer hear all the time: find your voice.
I am an intensely emotional person deep down. I have so much feeling and had no way to manage it. I love to get to the root of people, to find out who they are, why they are, and how they came to be. But with that comes an intense amount of empathy.
Feelings. Oh how the brits hate their feelings. And here I am – QUEEN OF FEELINGS! I used to be ashamed of it. I’d hide it. I’d supress it. I’d bottle it in and collapse in on myself. You’re ‘too sensitive’ I’d hear.
And it was true. Partly. The words were true but the tone wasn’t. When I started to write This is (not about) David Bowie, I began to OWN it. To embrace who I was. I had been treating this thing-that-nobody-understood, this intense-ability-for-empathy as a flaw. But in fact, it could be a strength if I could see it differently.
That’s how I discovered my voice. That’s how I found my space. That’s how I became my own black star.
‘Aging is an extraordinary process where you become the person you always should have been.’ David Bowie.
That quote, along with some other Bowie-wisdom runs through my collection. He was a living contradiction. He was the King of Pretending and the King of Truth. And if you’re a writer, you’ll know how wonderfully human that is.
I wanted this collection to embody that messy truth, because that’s what Bowie did for me. When someone asked me if I’d write a collection, it gave me permission. It also gave me a deadline to stop getting in my own way.
Permission. It’s such a weird thing. Permission to show up for yourself. Permission to define yourself. To let go of that impossible ideal. Bowie is an impossible ideal. Having a collection orbit around him was risky. In most cases I wouldn’t have dared use his name in vain.
But I knew how important it was to get out of my comfort zone.
So I hope when you read the crazy-weird oddities in my collection, that they will inspire something in you. To really see yourself, flawed, complex, full of contradictions, and wonder at how amazing that all really is…
You’re a blackstar.
And here’s a sample of the good stuff…
Leave a Comment · Posted on October 27, 2018
It’s been an absolutely crazy busy start to the academic year and I’ve been all over the country, mostly teaching. I was down at Cambridge University for First Story’s Young Writers’ Festival, and then I was at the BBC National Short Story and Young Writer of the Year Awards (it was broadcast on Radio 3’s Front Row, and I was actually sat on the front row, so lots of meta things to amuse me), and there’s been lots of writing of my own which I’m pretty excited about and lots more teaching and even more trains (1800 miles after three weeks, and then I lost count) not enough shaving, and, suddenly, it’s autumn – my favourite time of the year – the trees’ leaves are golden and the air’s chill and the ghosts are getting ready to come out and… and I’m out of breath just typing this.
But there is more news! And an opportunity for Yorkshire prose writers (up to 30) to work closely with me on a brand new fiction programme. I should have mentioned this much, much earlier (sorry!) and most of the places have already been snapped up, but there are a couple left. I’ll paste the detail’s from Hive South Yorkshire’s website below – any questions, give me a shout. Deadline’s OCTOBER 31st.
Hive Fiction programme for writers (18-30) – take your writing to the next level
Writing can be a lonely and a tricky business to navigate, even for those who’ve been doing it for some time. It’s difficult to know where to get feedback, or if what you’re writing makes the grade. And then there’s what to do with a story or novel once you’ve finished.
If you’re an aspiring short story writer, or novelist, keen to take your craft to the next level, Hive is running the Hive Fiction programme offering an immersive set of workshops over several months providing the help and guidance to get to where you want to be. Join prize-winning author, editor, and short story writer, Nik Perring, for all things fiction, and:
Who’s the Hive Fiction programme for?
The programme is for fiction writers, aged 18 to 30 in South Yorkshire, at any stage of their writing journey who would like to get more serious. You might lack direction, sticking power, or confidence. You might have a project you want to get stuck into, or want to sharpen your skills, or focus on honing your work.
All levels, genres and interests welcome | Meet like-minded people | Refreshments | Where: central Sheffield near trains/buses
Intro session TBC – Regular fortnightly sessions – day and time subject to majority interest in the first meeting (likely a weekday evening or Saturday afternoon)
Cost: The programme is subsidised by Hive South Yorkshire meaning a cost of just £55 for 12 sessions, and one to one tutorials and support at key stages. If cost is a barrier, please let us know in your application. Places are limited.
To Apply: Send up to 4 A4 pages of work (Times/font size 12), and up to 600 words saying what your interests are, where you are with your writing, and how you’d like the programme to help you to firstname.lastname@example.org (also include your age, date of birth, town you live in and postcode)– by midnight 31st Oct (deadline extended)
And here are some photos of my face in different places. (Actually, you’ll have to make do with just the two because technology is not being kind to me.)
1 Comment · Posted on October 8, 2018
Jonathon Pinnock’s latest, The Truth About Archie Pye, was published last week (huge congrats!) so I thought it’d be a fine thing if he were to come over here to celebrate. And he has, with his top tips for writing a comic novel…
Ten Top Tips for Writing a Comic Novel
Don’t drown in swathes of description. Humour needs to move fast, and dialogue is a splendidly economical way to show character. Think about the different ways in which different people can describe the same thing and what that says about them. Also, it can be a great way to show a relationship in action. Listen to how people discuss and argue – how they talk over each other and ignore the other person altogether.
Listen to the Rhythm
All writing needs to have a sense of rhythm, but for comedy it is everything. It’s the only way you can control the timing of the joke.
Don’t be lazy. Fix your point of reference exactly and the reader will be drawn in. Instead of saying “she sat alone in her bedsit, picking at her meal for one”, say something like “she sat alone in her bedsit, picking at her Findus individual ocean fish pie.” Victoria Wood was the master of this – study her.
Most of plotting in the end comes down to logistics: ensuring that person X arrives at Y at the right time with Z. Comedy arises when any or all of these go wrong. Play with all these possibilities. Give your protagonist a terrible time. Set him/her off on a quest and then strew rocks in his/her way. Read PG Wodehouse’s “The Code of the Woosters” to see how a master handles logistics in comedy.
Don’t linger on anything – especially a favourite gag. Once it’s done, move on to the next one. Pretend you’re writing for the Fast Show. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, it won’t matter because there’ll be another one along in a minute. Running gags are great, but make sure they build and don’t just repeat.
Avoid Clichés Like a Plague of Feral Badgers
If you’re tempted to use a cliché at any point, you have basically two choices. Either (1) take it out altogether or (2) subvert or develop it. Think of Blackadder’s plan that was “as cunning as a fox who’s just been appointed professor of cunning at Oxford University.”
Be Fair to Your Characters
Don’t create characters just to be the butt of jokes. Remember they have feelings too. Are they entirely passive? Do they have agency? Are you being fair to them? Are you punching down or up? They can still be really terrible people and have terrible things happen to them, but they must absolutely deserve it.
Avoid Info Dumps
This is a rule of writing in general (although I maintain that a well-executed exposition can cut an awful lot of flab – consider the first five minutes or so of the film “Serenity” for example), but it does apply especially to comedy. If you have a load of information to get across to the reader, make sure it’s done in an amusing way. Have something else going on in the background. Use something like the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – the only expositional device in literary history to have given its name to an entire book.
Don’t Overdo It
Don’t rely excessively on relentless devices like puns and in-jokes that will eventually wear the reader out. But if you can’t help yourself, make sure you REALLY overdo them. There’s no middle ground.
Ignore All the Above
Humour is MASSIVELY subjective. If you’re confident that what you find funny doesn’t fit the above template, go for it. If you find it funny, chances are someone else will.
Jonathan Pinnock’s THE TRUTH ABOUT ARCHIE AND PYE was published by Farrago Books last week. A surprising number of people seem to be enjoying it.
2 Comments · Posted on October 5, 2018
I’m absolutely thrilled to be able to say, finally, that Georgie Woodhead, of Hive’s Sheffield Young Writers’ Group has won the Foyle Young Poet of the Year! I’m not at all surprised, having seen her work up-close for a couple of years now. I honestly couldn’t be happier. You can read more about it here on Hive’s website but, in the meantime, here’s the wonderful poem.
he swayed from side to side, half-glugged bottle locked
in his burning fingers, his silhouette framed by the black hole of night,
flecks of scornful planets blinked behind his back. The whole world
stretched out in front of him like the sides of a fallen-down box,
and his eyes had been opened, and stared open as his shoulders
shook. His feet stumbled back and forth towards the edge,
the leather of his shoes creaking in protest against the gutter.
When the bar had closed and we were tossed out, left to stroll
with our hands shoved in our pockets like tree stumps rooted in earth,
we heard his bottle, a free-fall smash into green teeth on paving slabs.
He leaned over his small carnage in the same silence as we did,
our mouths open, eyelids pinned apart, necks turned like twisted cloth.
And him, with his frown slashed thin, disappointed, eyebrows folded
as if he had honestly expected anything different.
And that’s not all. Nope – fellow member, Maya Williams-Hamm was highly commended as well. Needless to say everyone is thrilled by these, thoroughly deserved, accolades. And a huge congratulations to everyone else listed too!
Leave a Comment · Posted on August 31, 2018
Way, way, back I was a member of an online writing group. I’d had a few things published but, as someone who’d never had any formal writing training, had never been to university, had no writing friends, and generally didn’t know too much about the writing world, joining that group was invaluable. This was 2004 or 2005, I think and, over ten years on the lessons I learned there are still with me. As is the constructive (and, on occasion, not so constructive) feedback. And the friends I made there are still with me too (and it’s such a lovely thing seeing so many of them doing so well).
Which brings me onto the brilliant Jacquline Ward, a fellow alumni whose book, Perfect Ten, is launched very, very soon and it’s a real pleasure to have her here to talk about it and her route to its publication and to hear her singing the praises of a group that helped so many of us, some time ago.
Writing groups, difficult decisions and publication
I am not a group person. I write alone and I’m one of those people who like my own company. Which is why I was completely surprised when, in 2007, I joined a writing group. I had just written and submitted my first novel and an agent had asked to see the full manuscript. Seasoned writers will be rolling their eyes at this point, because this rarely happens, and even more rarely comes to fruition.
I am the eternal optimist and, completely naive to the publishing industry, I truly believed that this was the making of my writing career. I searched online for a writing group and found WriteWords. I joined and I was very excited to see that the group was a mixture of established authors such as Emma Darwin and Clodagh Murphy and novices just like me.
I joined the chick-lit group, because that’s what I thought I was writing. The novel, I see much more clearly now, was semi-autobiographic and truly awful, but the group were kindly and constructively critical. Over time I realised that I had inadvertently stumbled across the loveliest group of people, including Nik who has kindly let me borrow his blog today, who have a wide range of writing knowledge.
The agent I sent the full manuscript to never got back to me. This is where Write Words came into its own; everyone was supportive and encouraging and helped me to see that it might take a little longer to get my novel published.
Then I was invited to a book launch by one of the group members. Keris Stainton’s first novel was published and she was having a book launch – in London! I was thrilled and a little bit star struck. I met many members of WriteWords that evening, and forged lasting writing relationships and close friendships. We met up for meals in London and Manchester. Even when I became interested in screenwriting and attended BAFTA sessions, I was never alone. There are always WriteWords people there and always chat and drinks afterwards. I have attended book launches and other valuable networking meetings that would not have been possible without this community.
This all makes writing sound very easy to negotiate, but there have been some difficult decisions. After some success with a speculative fiction novel and many disappointments I decided to try hybrid publishing, and entered Kindle Scout, a US based ebook first programme. My writing colleagues were honest and some questioned this, but still supported me. It was a great success for me and led to a crime series that sold well. But I knew that I still wanted a traditional books deal and this was looking less and less likely.
Fast forward ten years since I joined WriteWords, and I sent out a psychological thriller I had been working on for some time to agents. During that time I had already secured and agent, but this did not work out and I was back a square one; my writing friends, many of them very successful published authors by now, were still cheering me on. It was a difficult decision as I was worried about getting back into the submission/disappointment cycle, but I did it. I checked my emails only hours after sending out to agents to find requests for full manuscripts. The next day, one agent, Judith Murray, tracked me down to my day job and requested and immediate meeting.
We met, she was wonderful and loved my novel, and she sold it in weeks to Atlantic Books. I finally had a book deal! When I announced it congratulations flooded in from those people who know how hard publishing is, how difficult the waiting is, how long hours in front of a screen hurt your eyes, but also the pure joy when something like this happens.
The trade paperback of my novel, Perfect Ten, is released on the 6thSeptember and I have been overwhelmed by the love and support I have received from writing friends over the years. We are all at different stages in the publishing process and many have moved on from WriteWords itself, but there is one quality we all have in common – perseverance. We all stuck at it and learned from each other. Now it’s my turn for a book launch, in Manchester, not London, to bring publishing North, and of course, everyone is welcome!
So thank you, WriteWords, for bringing together this unique group of creative people that I am very proud to belong to – maybe I am a group person after all!
Leave a Comment · Posted on August 23, 2018
Time flies. Nine years ago I invited Shaindel Beers here to talk about her first poetry collection, ‘A Brief History of Time‘ – those of you who’ve been around me for the best part of that decade will know how much I loved the book and how HA has been a favourite poem of mine ever since I first heard it.
And Shaindel’s back. Nine years and two more books later (her latest is Secure Your Own Mask). And I’m delighted to her have her here to talk to us all about what’s changed for her in writing over this past ten years. So, Shaindel, what has changed…?
I think the biggest difference between being a writer with one book out (when you first interviewed me) and three books out (now) is having a different level of confidence. It’s not that I necessarily feel that I’m a better writer (though I certainly hope so!). It’s more that I don’t feel so desperate to get work published anymore. I’ve learned that if a poem is really good, someone will publish it. If a manuscript is worthy, it will turn into a book eventually. It’s an incredibly privileged position to be in, so I’m really hoping your readers aren’t swearing right now or chucking their laptops out a window.
As a young writer, it’s easy to feel that nothing will ever happen. That no one will ever read your writing. That you’ll never have one of your books out in the world. The important thing is to keep writing. Keep trying. Keep sending work out. In a lot of ways, it’s a numbers game. If you throw spaghetti noodles at a wall, some of them are bound to stick. With that being said, be open to improvement. You’re still learning. If an entire workshop group doesn’t understand your poem, or thinks a plot is unbelievable, it probably needs work. The willingness to change is what leads you to grow, what leads to better writing. So, back to that metaphor. The spaghetti noodles need to be boiled first. Make sure they’re boiled. Follow the directions on the box. See what other writers before you have done.
Once you’ve reached a position as an editor or an author with some sort of “prestige,” you have to give back. Read the first-time authors who submit work to you. Look over a poem a young writer emails and give them encouragement and a word of advice. I think that that is the biggest change. Ten years ago, I was a young writer who needed help, and now I’m happy to be of service to new writers. It’s like that adage around social media, “Be the adult you needed when you were a child.” Be the writer you needed when you were a new writer.
Shaindel Beers is author of the poetry collections A Brief History of Time (Salt Publishing, 2009), The Children’s War and Other Poems (Salt, 2013), and Secure Your Own Mask (White Pine Press, 2018). Her poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She is currently an instructor of English at Blue Mountain Community College in Pendleton, Oregon, in eastern Oregon’s high desert, and serves as poetry editor of Contrary. Learn more at http://shaindelbeers.com
Leave a Comment · Posted on August 14, 2018
Jonathan P Taylor has a new poetry collection out, Cassandra Complex, so I thought it would be a marvellous thing if I were to invite him over here to talk about it. And here’s the man himself, talking poems, prophecy, and time…
On Time Travel, Poetry, Prophecy and Cassandra Complex
I’ve always felt that poetry has a special relationship with time, which is what partly marks it out from other arts. It’s the art-form which, I think, finds it easiest to hold in balance different moments in time: one poem, in a very small space, can move easily between different moments, different histories and memories, between past, present, and future. Poems often superimpose, montage and juxtapose different scenes, creating non-linear, fractal, cyclical models of time. Maybe this is partly because of the way poetry is read: you often have to re-read a poem, or a line, or read it in a particularly intense way, so the experience of it is circular, static or non-linear.
This is not to claim that other art-forms cannot do similar things – just that they do not bend time quite so easily. Music often includes repetition, cyclical forms, refrains, but obviously it is experienced in a linear way – listened beginning to end; novels, which grew up in the wake of Newtonian physics, are naturally causal, linear and chronological in their mode of storytelling, and the ghost of such chronology haunts even the most experimental of longer fiction; short stories can generally encompass only one or two scenes; painting and sculptures are usually frozen moments in time. Of course, all sorts of artists, writers and musicians have complicated and challenged these characteristics of their art-forms; but poetry is the form which, from its earliest days, moves most smoothly, even naturally, between different time-frames. Homer’s Odyssey– to give one early example among many – manages to hold in balance three or four narratives and chronologies. Poetry is – or can be – a kind of temporal palimpsest, or counterpoint.
Perhaps it is this aspect of poetry which has lent it to prophecy and fortune-telling. In Percy Shelley’s famous words, poetry is ‘the trumpet of a prophecy,’ and poets themselves ‘the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.’ Again, this association goes all the way back to the earliest poetry: from Ancient Babylonia, the tablets Enuma Anu Enlil(When the Gods Anu and Enlil…) represent at once a remarkable work of poetry and of prophecy. In my new poetry collection, Cassandra Complex (Shoestring Press, 2018), I set out to explore the overlaps between poetry and prophecy. I wanted to explore these overlaps in historical, political and also personal ways – so there are poems about moments of (apparent) prophecy in my own life, alongside poems about modern forms of prophecy (in the form, for instance, of economic forecasts, medical prognoses, and job adverts), alongside ancient and historical prophecies. Of these latter, Enuma Anu Enlilis one of my starting-points in the collection:
From Shumma Alu: Everyday Omens
If the outside of the house is decorative
it will be deserted.
If the outside of the house is beautiful
it will not stand long.
If the house keeps changing outside
so will its keepers inside.
If the house is ugly or in shade
all inside will be happy.
If the house’s exterior looks ordinary
its keepers will grow old together.
Perhaps there is something inherently poetic about trying to look into the future – language becomes imagistic, symbolic, poetic when it is stretched and distorted across time. Certainly, omens like those inEnuma Anu Enlil are poetic images, and are stretched across three different moments simultaneously: they are addressed to readers in the present, telling them about the future, implicitly interpreting signs based on past experience. In that way, they are not so different from the predictions of modern science – which are similarly based on extrapolating the future from past patterns, for the benefit of the present.
There are even more complex examples of temporal counterpoint – for instance, where historical predictions are reinterpreted in light of intervening events (sometimes called ‘hindsight bias’); or even where historical pseudo-prophecies were actually written after the events they seem to predict (sometimes called ‘retroactive clairvoyance’). In Cassandra Complex, I wanted to explore all these different kinds of prophecy and pseudo-prophecy. Some of the poems, for example, embody forms of retroactive clairvoyance, whereby past prophecies are revisited to address and defamiliarise what’s happening now:
The refugees from an Apocalypse yet to happen
are flooding through the time-gate in bloodied rags,
marked by the Antichrist, trembling from earthquakes,
scorched by stars and planets crashing to earth,
chewed and spat out by dragons with various heads,
nibbled by locusts.
Tens of thousands have already perished en route
and most who reach their past are denied sanctuary:
after all, it’s their fault they weren’t among the Elect.
The future can hardly be blamed on us, can it?
A select few we save, those who bring with them
knowledge of soon-to-be-discovered technologies,
oh, and the plumbers.
The others – the godless, hairdressers, poets –
are shoved back,
whingeing they can’t win on either side of history.
Afterwards, if you press your ear against the door
and listen carefully, I have heard it said,
you can hear trumpets, distantly, from the other side.
This poem aims to mix the age-old language of prophecy, apocalypse and Revelations with modern political rhetoric about refugees and immigration. Hence, the mingling of different time-frames in a poem can also be a mingling of languages: different voices, registers and discourses from past, present and future can overlap, merge and clash in poetry.
In that sense, poetry can be a kind of linguistic time travel. In fact, I think poetry is – at least up till now – the closest we have to time travel, in its ability to move seamlessly between different time-frames. William Wordsworth claimed something similar, when he said that ‘poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.’ In other words, poetry retrospectively revives the past and relives it as if it is now.
In poetry, perhaps everything is now, everything is happening at once – past, present and future. There’s a wonderful poem by X. J. Kennedy, inspired by Einstein, called ‘The Purpose of Time is to Prevent Everything From Happening at Once,’ which is about this very subject. In a poem, though, time does not and cannot always prevent everything happening at once – and the final poem in my collection collapses time, so that past, present and future seem simultaneous:
Through an open door you’re watching an old self
holding someone else’s hand and you’re trying to say:
Please don’t let go. Please don’t move away.
Please please please don’t leave the room.
But something like the future is stuck in your throat
and the warning only comes out as a raven’s croak
so the old self lets go, moves away, leaves the room,
walks through you as if it’s you who’s the ghost
as if it’s you who’ll be stuck here forever
with the someone else who stays in the chair
whose hand you’re unable to touch
and who says confidently to the old you:
Goodbye, see you soon. See you very soon.
About the Author
Jonathan Taylor is an author, editor, lecturer and critic. Cassandra Complex (Shoestring, 2018) is his second poetry collection. His other books include the novels Melissa (Salt, 2015) and Entertaining Strangers (Salt, 2012), and the memoir Take Me Home (Granta, 2007). He directs the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. Originally from Stoke-on-Trent, he now lives in Leicestershire with his wife, the poet Maria Taylor, and their twin daughters, Miranda and Rosalind. His website is www.jonathanptaylor.co.uk.