BrightonFringe2017FriendsHouseShipStreet

Wand moving forward:

She is shy

Of living with a man/ Of living with a boy/ So she whispers to him/ She is a baby whisperer.

And sometimes he sits on the window ledge/ He has pulled on his boots and sits in /Only his nappies and coat.

Looks longingly outside.

Magnolias

Magnolias unfurling One by one Their wings curling giant butterflies Blink and they're gone

 

Is it harrassment to laugh at a love that is harassment?

Twenty call a day in May 2015

Theo plays games in which Mum Laura is excluded.

She is not allowed to follow through the gate at Kew,

Playground.

As it is she is always over him, so this is how he escapes

 

Jeremiah Wellbottom thinks his bottom holy

But really it is jelly and guacamole

 

 

By Kafkas Wife

The letter: It lay there.No, it’s not that simple.one could think about it for a while.The post arrives instantly, meanwhile flying over the need for a dark-haired beauty, in our mind of course, who with her yellow trolley fills up the whole of the pedestrian walkway, with her newspapers, catalogues, summons, warnings for overdue, penalty notices, family greeting cards and other unpleasant bills, towering over the street. If one wishes to go back even further, then one needs to enjoy looking at the wild suppositions, the knots of thoughts to the cafe where the piece of paper had to sit on the table between the coffee cup and the saltshaker, and to the fingertips which have to push the halting ink pen to meek, uncooperative letters.One must mention that I had a wish to reach the distant friend, my disappointment at the up to now missing answer to the other letters, which caused me to halt short of enthusiasm and exuberant openness and forced me to clam up.What is it about words on paper?Nothing is more uncompromising and divulging than a conversation without a spontaneous answer. A sort of monologue. As each dishonest written word is a stumbling block for the wished for flowing text. The reader of the letter can easily tell. Thumbs up, thumbs down, how redundant is: ‘I don’t know how to tell you what I think..’ In a conversation with a person in front of you, it would be easy to read it as as an unaccentuated, quick example of a person’s apology, looking for the right words. The empty phrases are easily forgiven as if by the attempt at conversation one might reach towards things one had not expected to say.A letter is different.How many of the incomplete thoughts end up in the dustbin, before one begins to think that one has attained expression of what one wished. No tone of voice, no pause, or gestures, or miming, but rather the running time, charting, repetition of word, sentence structure that is required of a conversational framework.Not to cross out small errors of choice of word in the general attempt to reach another.Now and then one reaches in writing a moment’s pause, as one considers if one has expressed a bit too close to bone, or ambiguous. The reader might not react, ultimately he might find it very binding, to read, it can make one feel panicked as driven into a corner, affronted, enforcing a decision which one might never have wished to make, or even in any case forced to react. Yes, yes, yes. How undependable, unforgiving is the written word. If the letter is actually read to the end, relieved, the name written with a flourish below the cheerful, farewell aphorism. Once finished the letter is then subject to reasonable consideration. With lipstick, biro, cough sweets it now shares its destiny. It is schlepped around, prudently past a couple of postboxes, and as the envelope is sealed, and one cannot change its contents anyway, at some point it is eventually in a high-spirited, generous mood dropped in. Yes.After a vigorous movement toward the receiver of the letter it commingles with the uniformly folded over hidden secrets, written revelations, forms, etc. becomes dogeared and attains a fine but grey patina. It reaches soon enough its goal. It has by now been several times superficially assessed, is thrown into an overflowing postbox, after it is opened it is filed away, and is put for a while on a perhaps dove-blue table.Mere speculation of course as to what will follow, perhaps it is a bit idle to think about the mood in which my reader picks it up. Perhaps he opens it hastily, or peels it back slowly, or skims across it, or reads every word, wonders, with a shake of his head, feels, understands or agrees. Whether surprised, or feeling near to me, who knows, I know I do not.The person waiting for a reply is in a fix.He awaits.He as a waiter can take it a bit lighter. Mind you in defence of my friend I should say: for the traveller it is difficult to regulate what is day, night or distance. It might best be described as a juggling, if one ball falls then another will soon be thrown in as a replacement.It is a difficult decision. Too much packaging is bad but also too much limitation.The dark-haired woman with the giant yellow trolley bag storms the last mailboxes and with a stoic calm shares out the important, unimportant and annoying lines. The hallway is full of the sounds of boxes clattering open as she stuffs the mouths of the boxes with monotonous rhythm, ending the wait or in some cases extending it.In my case the box remains empty, the errors of writing unreported, unanswered and so in my i magining alone I open the letter of a travelling friend.

The Email: He found me: I had first looked for him in google mail. That sounds like on Mars, or in the Matrix. He lives in London. I in Dresden.So now I sit in front of a bright monitor, in a bleak room, and the text seemingly jumps right out at me and has a presence as of a break-in. The spy on my laptop. Above middle to the lower right the message.It plops onto my computer display, instantly there, we are up-to-date, ready, nimble-fingered and amazingly intelligent. I hardly have the time to pause and wonder if I really am, it is taken for granted and then it leaves me wonder if everyone is cleverer or whether I am the one to fail to see that everyone is in a chorus and that is why no one notices I don't understand.Though maybe I am sitting in front of a giant monster that is controlling the world, so that we ants all run in the same direction. The IPhoneX. Everyone runs to the latest at the scent-brand, as though it were an extension of one's body, which once it has been mounted cannot be removed, only extended. A body part that is there solely to allow one to remove all, stand naked, in public, imaginatively, in public imaginatively, an octopus' arm of useless communicating. A tool for us in a fog of accountability.Wait though, before I give in to anxiety and self-doubt at what could be progress as a fast communication. Charlie wrote to me. And I start to resolve the text as it compresses in my brain. What does an email have that is so different? Why do these questions and answers appear overlapping. What is happening is a sort of impatience, a carelessness or is the mail actually advancing my ability to interpret at speed, so that by the end I have actually realised I forgot the start.It is as though the email would be a kind of outfoxing, associations, a card box even of smells as I remember the winter of 1991. See myself at Gatwick, without a penny in my pocket and the first person I ask the way speaks a strange dialect. But what is Charlie actually writing?Content!So to justify myself I must admit that I'm not sure at all, what is written because of my lacking English. At the same time I'm working on a translation of his pages of a long text, and am seriously wondering how we ever communicated 26 years ago?Maybe words are overvalued? Language at all? Do we all have to talk so much? Can we longer be silent? With each other and unconcerned about status and cognitive abilities.The letters in sentences, in paragraphs, in Times Roman, size 9, in an advised format, the log in, the google logo, that is displayed in the left top corner, there are hundreds of variations and thousands of synonyms, as though one were listening to music, as higher timbre they flood into one's head, not with sensual or haptic appreciation, but of a form of rationality, concerned only with knife-blade, sharp perception. I feel like I've had sugar, way too much sugar, the subtle hum of adverts, the addition of news, fakes, electronic triggers, my head is growing fatter and fatter, my brain collaborates with the sugar, without making any sense, digestive ability in flow.I'm off on a tangent.Yet that is exactly the point. The email cannot be held, I'm pulling it apart, but only answering in bits, yet there is the circle of confusion. Half-English, half-German, with a lot of subjects, relating to one mail, then replaced by another so we are stuffed with satellite-mail.No. No prose can develop, the whole thing is empty of meaning, the button for rubbish hovers on the screen.I try to lift myself out of chair, my brain clicking on assimilating stories that pop like soap bubbles.I play a long note on my flute, a d would be best and then a chord, on and on and on..and on.

Jean Findlay spoke and is still talking about Proustian memory and healing wounds...for Refugee Week

Jean is descended from CK Scott Moncrieff forced into exile,after being a fearless fighter in War, as homosexual (she was nominated for LAMBDA Award. This is particularly relevant with gay murderers still in Russia), with Bob Cooper, a passionate campaigner for rights and a Minister.

 

A letter Jean recently received which she talked of in Centre for Fiction, NY from a man relating working with war wounded from Iraq and Afghanistan, at Walter Reed recovery centre, said he read of Chasing Lost Time and CKSM's wounds with great interest..perhaps "beauty and rendering commonplace things that illuminated their beauty may have been important to Scott Moncrieff" So we "knit ourselves back together through memories, a creative process Re Membering," as Jean gently puts it.

 

Poet Bob Cooper is also coming with his new collection Everyone Turns

We all have a female and a male component, with

 

Feel very humbled by meeting and working with Ugandan Jade Jackson, who although she suffered torture, writes gratefully of "Freedom from Torture", formerly Medical Foundation as "a Mother to Millions of all colours" with PEN's Lucy Popescu she is now published and her moving poetry relevant to all; she writes of her forgotten country

Last spring we were interviewed for Women's Week Radio, invited all to play a piano on the beach,to Edinburgh, bringing many thousands to play music. We wish to continue building works in the South: Morphe is London, Crawley Brighton.."You won't heal anyone unless you have respect for their dignity" Jean Findlay, Jenny says in 'Enemy Territory' to doctor. She met legend Tadeusz Kantor, who let her uniquely study a year with him in Krakow, and she publishes beautiful memoirs, of those of perception

She with friends Sally and Lala supported some war veterans I met, inspiring me in my direction to show real life, as perceived and unadulterated..

Great, inspiring change,forward-moving:bring a poem or thought of your own

 

Lucy Popescu is fronting the stage event

at Brighton Festival Fringe, Friends House, only 2nd/3rd June,7pm with poet Jade Jackson, before Waterstones Mothership Piccadilly 19th June, and Theatre Deli, 24th for International Refugee Week, for work involving kids building gaps in a wall with natural material and manna; we have free entry to Festival

 

CK Scott Moncrieff,

badly injured in the war, is

seen looking out. He would

leave the Uk as a gay,

into exile in Rome shortly after this

for freedom of conscience, where he translated

Proust's work, before it was celebrated

 

courtesy of Irene Mensah Award for Community.

All donations are going to Country to Call Home, which is the latest anthology created by Lucy.

A truly wondrous enterprise..Judith Kerr and other children's authors are contributing..Quiz at end, asking what you remember! and tomboloa, song and raclette, Polish/ French cooking baba ghanoush included

 

reflections on Lucy's anthology for misplaced orphans, on the run, theatre delikatessen, and waterstones Refugee Week. Poetry is a form of freedom, another sky from the one above, as our multiawarded poets show.

 

 

Jade Jackson has a beaming smile and welcomes people with a hug.

 

She is also very funny, and yet is capable of writing about grief that would overwhelm most, and terrible pain at being alone, yet she has overcome all become an ace in the pack.

 

Arek tells of waking up in a cheap flat where the police arrested everyone except him

Frank tells of his father leafleting for resistance yet how he has spent years in London feeding homeless with Pret support, even a man with cat who always wants tuna salads for some reason..

then Nora, Danish by birth, although from a persecuted Christian sect in Iraq, has found release in comedy, who helps us cook baba ghanoush.

 

There will be a Quiz: for everyone and a prize of a book signed by Jade or professor Jim Haynes, who was John Lennon's best pal, and has been organising dinner parties in Paris, every sunday for forty years for anyone who wants to come..up to one hundred people in the summer. He is signing a copy of his book 'How to throw a great party' with recipes cooked by friends from all around the world..or gary from moscow who grew up in London and wants to act,loves freedom and never wishes to return to his maddening homeland...

 

Have you cards read!

Cards 'Cheery Families' found from Marks and Spencer from 1895, are here.. shortly after a Polish migrant Marx met Spencer, after selling his one penny bargains in the street, which reminds one of

' Time future and time past are both eternally

present' Eliot informs us, again and again and it is true that we need to overcome to live fully in the present..conception of babies makes the past present if we migrate in bodies..and the future opens possibilities and hope.

Beaming is the white light we offer in sacrifice as scientists say made

from all the colours of the rainbow .

Keep your dreams

 

 

For child

in your smile the dawning of days and endless love

in my heart is a sun growing out of conjunction

with the planets there is not night or day

but darkness is a new kind of light, for in your gasping night

and crying assuaged only by earth's milking mother

crying in persuasion from dehydration