Mere English

'You may very well think that...'

I have always loved Queen Elizabeth’s description of herself as ‘mere English’. Never was a character less mere! Since last week’s invitation to thumbnail a portrait from two names failed to bring any volunteer out of the shadows, or put down his/her pint for long enough, I have decided to reverse the process. If this poem evokes a person (and it did describe one, originally) why not give him/her a name? If not, I hope you just enjoy this very un-Elizabethan character, who could well find a place in Trollope or Austen, or Henry James, but would be un-noticed by George Eliot!

Mere English                                    You want to watch those oars

You would not care for Africa, you say;
the narrowness of mind that travel brings…
No persuasion had you venture forth
from Dorset and her soft enclosing hills.

‘Why precipitate adventure when instead
monotony so benignly passes time?
Why think, when thought pricks restlessness
or worse, provokes an impulse to the day?’

The winds of soft-stirred longing which arose             No doubt the vulgar has its place
were raiment of an English tempered muse.
Metered music and the symmetry of stone…
The dim glimmer of a chancel, summoning…

Were all the pulse allowed the dying risk of age.

No oceans all engraved with serpent coils…
Terror incognita, (I know it well…)
The map but not the diction: Heavens, names and foreign foods!
the spaces better blank to seed with certain platitudes.

The Naming of Parts

The Naming of Parts

Last Friday I promised to introduce some characters (and I will) but something intervened which seemed a worthwhile detour; the question of names. What intervened was reading a guest blog from Linda Gillard on Roz Morris’s ‘Undercover Soundtrack’ (my unvarying Wednesday habit of the week). In amongst all the music featured by other writers this one was inspired by Philip Glass.

I realised that my belief that I disliked of the music of Philip Glass probably stemmed entirely from his name. Brittle, transparent, unyielding, surface, glitter, glass harmonica, self reflective, sharp, wintry, the voice that shatters…. All come to the mind in that small single word (even though we share a Christian name it does not ameliorate the power of ‘glass’.) I realised I hardly knew the music of Philip Glass and that was the likely reason. John Cage was not much better: imprisoned, restricted, stale, cruel, limed, in need of cleaning. Perhaps it is a poet’s mind, with unending echoes of association. We weave webs from words and find ourselves caught by them. Now that I have really listened to the Glass violin concerto as related and focussed by another’s response to it, I found it incredibly poignant and mesmerising.

So prejudice kept a mind closed.

How relevant might this be to the naming of character parts? How acute an attention ought we to give it?

Did anyone see ‘Enchanted April’ and resonate with Mrs Wilkins saying she hated ‘Wilkins’ with its ‘kins’, its diminutive piggy tail? I so did!

I have always liked my name, Philippa, (Philos, Hippos…a lover of horses) and wonder whether my absorption with horses all my life was caused by it? Of did my mother have prescience? It was very uncommon back then. I only ever met one other. If so, she did not know how many would massacre its ancient Greek beauty by spelling it incorrectly. How many people spell Philosopher with two ‘Ls’? Yet I could never give a character an over familiar name, it would imprison any freedom they might need, and once envisioned characters take on their own life.

The rushing power of names and the harness of them are, for me, almost un-brookable. Does any one else feel this way? When I read a book in which a place name is contrived, unlikely to be in the County in which it is set I immediately distrust the writer’s sensitivity to history or place. J.K. Rowling, a genius with names in Harry Potter, now chooses ‘Pagford’ (slag, hag, tinker, all overwhelm the ‘ford’) for a ‘pretty village’ It does not quite ring true and certainly does not (for me) convey a ‘pretty village’. Too plausible however (like ‘Midsomer’ Murders), becomes merely dull. How to strike the balance between what you as author ‘feel’ in the name and what your readers’ references to it may be? It may be quite the opposite of what we expect.

One of the reasons I love Trollope is because his names are creatively uncompromising, nothing is left unstated: Obadiah Slope is both revengeful Old Testament and yet slippery as an eel, his hypocrisy and self importance all in the name. Mrs Proudie all chins and heaving indignation. Dickens’s Bob Cratchit, scratches on his high stool forever. We can then get on to the nuances of their situation. One could not get away with it now …although I did once try with ‘Geoffrey Mentwell’ ( a benevolent but bumbling retired schoolmaster- managing always to step in it) in a rural TV comedy.

A Christmas Carol
Bent with Service
Conceit personified

I feel that names carry with them all the qualities of those who gave them life before. So much so that naming my daughters was an exercise in bequeathing them conscious associations, hoping their lives would be shaped by their names…all Shakespearean (I wanted them deep-rooted) but with modulated second names to correct extremes. ‘Juliet’ was destined to inspire passion, and retain delightful innocence but I did not want passion lethal so she needed ‘Emma’ (Woodhouse) to correct the balance. In a general way there is something in each that does resonate with their literary forbears. I still wonder how I allocated them and in the right order? Re-incarnation decided and I was just the mouthpiece?

I would be interested to hear the views of others on this, and how they arrive at the names for characters, and what goes into making their choices?

Last week I mentioned a character called Vernon. He is a major character in a novel and has a hot/cold platonic relationship with Claudia. Would anyone start the ball rolling by describing what those names convey to them? Before I flesh them out in interaction? Flash portraits would be great! It would be interesting to discover what degree of congruence there is, and whether the importance I give to it, is justified. I doubt it is a habit I could shed, whatever we might discover.

Key West.

Visit her studio at
I shall surface like the mermaid seal, untouchable…

This is an extract from the poetic evocation of the sixties ‘A Shadow in Yucatan’ which is set in Florida. (A review can be found under ‘Books’) Posting this today is a celebration of a memory offered by Erica Robuck’s Undercover Soundtrack on

The painting is offered with the kind permission of the artist Trisha Adams whose studio can/ no, should be visited  for a taste of sunlight.

Sunday- Key West.

I shall go hang on the Continent’s tail, beyond the Barfly at Sloppy Joe’s
Heedless of his beard and belching, my oaths will be toes
in the aimless water…Nostrils to the brindled air.
Space will shimmer scents from Tenochtitlan.
Gold bracelets bind me to the suicide of Cortez.
I am lost, but I shall find. They will never follow me.

I shall tread juice from tobacco clippings, and watch the old men spit.
Havana ola, in the speckled shadows of the straw market, my feet in the ashes, my cheeks smeared with clay, wanton, outcast like them.
I shall not lick or roll. I shall not have to work
I shall simply be there.
For a day.

I shall eat smoked mackerel, pungent with wood,
steamed by the water, in a tipping boat.
The heaving horizon I shall tame to undulation.
I have spoken. I shall swim.
I shall tip boat-barrel and glide among the hawsers of
forgotten hulks, black amid keels, menacing with mouths. Treasure is forgetfulness.
I shall sink.

I shall surface like the mermaid seal, untouchable.
Drag my gleaming limb.
Lollop and skid on the board-walk to watch the taffeta water
summon the world to drink.
I shall squint through rust and bitumen.
Bite through my lip.

The surgeon sun will fit me legs, brace my back and bandage my eyes.
I will be led to convalesce.
The gold gulf wind will draw me unobserved
past shutters, rocking chairs and limes.
The machismo of yesterday is a hat by the water’s edge.

Contemplating Divorce

Contemplating Divorce

The Woman-who-thought-she-could-write
realised (with her morning tea), on March eighth,
that she had been misled.
She looked at Language snoring beside her,
his lascivious tongue flickering kisses…

and wondered what she’d ever seen in him.

In the early days he was lithe and spare:
Lean as a leaf that could cut a thumb;
moist as an eye in a crucifixion.
The traps he sprung watered cheeks with pearls…
Laughter bubbled unforced.

His seduction had shaved pencils;
spearing dark dreams like bats fleeing light.
Now he sulked, demanded home cooking…
Cracking bones, complaining…
at a desk-top boiling all day.

How had insinuation slithered
(Persuading the Word to ape God?)
between the smooth sheets of a welcome.
The coral brained dish of endeavour
turning black with nicotine.

The Egyptians were content with an alphabet;
awaiting Napoleon, planning parchment or paper?
It was no big deal, sand would suffice.
Millennia passed…
chipping stone, slurping beer.

Talk alone managed to trade and to travel…
The river flooded without self-assembly instructions…
Pyramids made their point, and were proved non-combustible.
Who is Posterity?
What is the fuss?

Her garlanded Bacchus had grown obese
snorting lines of attention;
sweating metaphors sweet,
astride his tortoise, bibulous, self-serving,
as flaccid as the spittle sliding

The London Book Fair opens its doors to Authors

Authors Exist!.

In 2007 I first visited the London Book Fair, in the hope of buttonholing an agent/publisher/interested party, and after trailing down alleyways of stallholders, all intently interviewing and avoiding catching eyes of anyone without an appointment, realized that the LBF was not a place where authors were recognized as relevant to anything. I had a self published book on a shelf in the nether reaches of the indie publishing section tucked as far from sight as possible, upstairs in an isolated desert, where the custodians picked their teeth and exchanged opportunities for a coffee or a smoke. I vowed never again.

This year was very different.

Some self publishing subsidy publishers had made it into the big-time hall and the world of digital, marketing, self publishing had commandeered Earls Court2 alongside the thrusting Chinese theme. All seminars seemed geared to the new world. Was I alone in imagining a cold shiver, a glacial denial in the ranks of traditional publishing?  They seemed to have their backs to the prevailing wind. Some had clustered together under group umbrellas, the Mind Body Spirit section looked hopeful of survival, the Small Independents seemed huddled for mutual support, and authors now walked with more confidence. Authors had invaded, and authors were catered for. Two publishers actually accepted a manuscript, and promised to read it. Way hey!

Nobody said it was going to be easy; but the tide has turned, undoubtedly.

Review of Gaia’s Children by Paul Kieniewicz

Since the author of this work, Paul Kieniewicz, writes such excellent reviews of the work of others it is daunting to do his work justice without giving too much away. This is a deeply philosophical work but the philosophy is worn very lightly, and well camouflaged within a plot that wholly engages on its own terms.

It would be tempting for the genre fundis* to call this science fiction, but as this work itself reveals what was fiction once is fiction no longer. An imaginative genetic interspecies is now plausible, given the recent announcement of the hubris of science to construct its own variations on what evolution has painstakingly refined over millennia. The world of ‘synthetic genetics’ is already upon us, with inbuilt self-destruct genes in case things go badly wrong. Which goes to show that irresponsibility is now tossed off with ‘we’ve made provision for our possible thoughtlessness, calm down dear…’

Continue reading “Review of Gaia’s Children by Paul Kieniewicz”