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Kyle writes and delivers poems with an unaffected use of form and imagery that connects with his audience at all levels. In “Toothbrush” a child’s toothbrush becomes a potent symbol: without effort or pretension he expresses the dualism of innocent childhood and adult identity, good and evil, in a phrase like “throwing off the dreamlike cloak of childhood”. Evil like a broken glass bathroom shelf is everywhere and has to be faced. After all, he says, looking in the bathroom mirror, “You reflect yourself everywhere you go.” And we’re nodding, yes, yes, we’re with him. Thinking about places and, in particular, cities, Kyle writes of the peace to be found “Between Buildings”, in the gaps between main streets, where the minutiae of real life can be glimpsed by the traveller wandering down alleys. “Being lost in Venice is anything you wish for ... in between, there’s always room for a small glow.” Fishing, a theme to which he returns often, is an activity that brings him closer to nature and the animal world as well as to the important members of his family: “the fishing line’s a connection to everything that lives”. In “The Pier” the very planks of the landing stage are alive with feeling, protecting the old and stimulating the young who tread on them. And Kyle had love poems, written for Laura, his girlfriend. Laura becomes one with the landscape where he can live, in “You at Night,” and in “Waiting Star”, she is the being he waits for when they first meet and he hopes to know her. “I only pray for other things” he says: Laura is a given, the rest is needed only as it relates to her. “Where my father stepped” is another kind of love poem. The pride that Kyle expresses in his father’s achievements and the strong model of manhood he has provided for his son is contained passionately in the structure of the poem. And in “The Old Professor” there’s love of a wise teacher, of the poets to whom he introduced Kyle, and of poetry as an art. We were left with a sense that we had been allowed into Kyle’s world, had roamed in the landscapes, mountains and forests where he grew up, had wandered backstreets in Venice, had met his family, had watched the animals and fished the lakes of his home with him.
We had ten open mic readers, and the quality was high. It was good to see some faces we haven’t seen for a while, including Michael Cutchey. The good news was that Rochelle Parker had found a poem! The bad news was that she had become a plant! Rochelle subverted a gardening manual and claimed “I’m a Buddleia”, bringing a lot of smiles to our faces. Jim Carter wondered with Leonard Cohen how he could have doubted he was in love again. But after that, he was in a mood, and he told us exactly what the things are that Fuck With His Head. We all found ourselves nodding in sympathy with the list, and we’re looking forward to the musical production next month when Jim brings his guitar. Ray Pool, musician that he is, had written the sound of a bagpipe and memories of the 70’s, and, mysteriously, CD’s jammed in the Laundromat. Everyone else nodded recognition so either I misheard or my local washeteria back then was lacking something! Karen Izod read a poem dedicated to her father, commemorating 100 years of conscientious objection to war. “Sewing on Gladstone Island” was a new poem woven with rich textile images. Alex de Suys was in a bit of a mood, as well, what with work, the younger generation, the middle-aged generation, the older generation, capitalism, pizzas (no, pizzas were OK) poets, and not having had time to get a set ready. It wasn’t getting him down, though, and his ringing tones echoed cheerfully around the room. (Maybe because Dónall had accidentally turned up the echo knob on our new PA system!) Eddie Chauncy’s love poem was about addiction (“I’m not allowed you”) and had a happy ending as clearly he could resist anything except temptation. Next came: What to do with a psychologically challenged car? ODD isn’t restricted to naughty little boys, it seems. And Eddie’s newest poem is inspired by portraits of the Queen on old and new coins, with an "Eddie twist" of balanced opposites at the end. I (Janice) read Robbie Burns’ fond farewell to Nancy, whom he loved and left with many tears (or so he said). Then I explained politics to sheep, goats and geep. And Hilbre Watts (bottom right) did a sterling job (that’s not meant to be a pun on Stirling) reading Robbie Burns interludes. “To a mouse” and several of Burns’ epigrams fitted in very nicely throughout the evening. Her “Thanks for a Famous Victory” would have stirred the Highland blood, for sure.
NEW SERIES: No 1 — Zooming with the 1000 Monkeys in February 2022On February 1st we had a great time and enjoyed some excellent poetry despite a delayed start — our Zoom URL link had somehow got deactivated in the process of going out on Mailchimp. (Memo to self: stick to old-fashioned gmail in future!) We were especially glad to welcome back some old friends who hadn't been able to make it on Tuesday evenings because of courses or illness. It was good to see Lara, who is recovering from Covid, and Hélène, who had an evening free mid-course.
We began the evening with Sue Johns reading a strong pair of poems from her first book, each dealing with the lives of a sex-worker, It was a powerfully moving start. 'Wanton', in the voice of a Nigerian woman, was partly in Nigerian patois. 'Papers on a train', a cut-up poem, was from her second collection, 'Track Record.' Jo Wright followed up with 'The Killing Poems' — not so much tales of murder, as warnings of ecological destruction: "after killings forests burn". With her other two poems she struck a more hopeful note: "The eye of the heart is always looking." In 'Healing', she assured us that we're entitled to "games of must-believe". Ranald, having published his translations of Friendship, Love and Abuse, the shorter poems of Catullus in 2020, has turned to Catullus's longer poems and he delivered his English translation of one of Catullus's own translations into Latin of a Greek poem. A kind of Russian doll of a poem. It was as erotic as any of Catullus' own poems, of course. Pratibha had more of her Irish legacy to recount, and some creepy-crawly 'Domestic Gods'. Julia Duke asked "how do you choose what to spend your money on?" in a poem about values; in 'Screaming for attention' she aired a grievance, and she rewrote Genesis in terms of climate change in 'In the beginning'. David Punter had a very creepy, sinister new neighbour introducing himself on a local social media site, and in 'Gold, Saffron, Cocaine' he considered the relative merits of the valuable goods carried on the Silk Road from East to Western markets, drawing a conclusion that you might guess. Hélène Demetriades' moving poem 'Parting Gifts' reminded many of us of the sorrow of an ageing parent's despair and anger at their growing loss of independence, and in another poem told of an episode at the other end of life, when the young narrator visits Switzerland. Rod Whitworth made us smile ruefully with his letters to Tory cabinet ministers and advisers, and in 'The Dock, Nuremberg' paid tribute to Dame Laura Knight, the artist whose painting of that name was inspired by her experience of sitting in the gallery at the trial of Nazi war criminals. Tony Watts' first poem told a Zulu legend of a race between the Lizard and the Chameleon to bring news of the existence of Death to the first Zulu warrior. (The Chameleon won, because the Lizard stopped on the way so failed to deliver immortality to Man.) 'The Talking Horses of Dreams' were remarkable for brooding over "a body of knowledge ... the intractable fact of the world." Paul Wright's poem warned us in no uncertain terms "Do not put your hand down" inside a hollow tree stump — and after that poem I shall certainly avoid hollow tree-stumps altogether (Paul was inspired by James Grainger, whom I must look up on Google.) Timothy Adès gave us his translations of the sonnets that Jean Cassou wrote in his head while imprisoned by the Nazis without any writing materials, remarkably writing them later from memory. Mantz Yorke introduced us to a 'Proud Boy'; Carla Scarano spoke of an imprisoned heart, inspired by Shakespeare's Sonnet no 133, celebrated "the silence of the ordinary" and remembered a wet summer in Lancaster, and Liz Kon read her own homage to Carla's poem about an embarrassing experience as a patient treated as a 'thing' by trainee doctors. And there were lots more poems, ideas and friendly talk, which I was too interested in listening to, to write notes about... If you would like to listen to a new line-up of talented Monkeys, or read your own poems, on 1st March, do email us. And I'll make sure the URL link works perfectly this time. |
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