(and I’m not plugging this just because my photo happens to be included ;

)

I was made to feel very welcome at the Archive and returned later in the week to listen to readings from Tony Harrison’s version of The Oresteia.  This was a brilliant event and Harrison has lost nothing of his deep booming voice.  The supper that followed was brilliant too – all in all a really good week.

I have had to change gear, and cancel a full year’s engagements.  This has been a time of deep reflection and of changing priorities, but all being well I am very much looking forward to making a presentation at the Oxford Archive next Monday when I will be talking about how I translate classical Latin texts and of course I will be reading some poems, in particular, those inspired by – yes, you’ve guessed it – Horace.

http://www.apgrd.ox.ac.uk/

Here is the poem I wrote dedicated to the bandstand (the one that appeared on the hoardings)

What the Bandstand Knows

I
Music quavers in the lattice,
waits to be played again.
Rook plants his claws round the minaret
but he can’t interpret the song;
and even when Tipperary drips into his ears
and poppies make the grass bleed,
even when hugs linger on the steps
and a blond snaps her lover’s face
before he marches towards an honour guard of trees,
even then rook can’t unpick the song.

He circles eight times,
perhaps he prays,
perhaps he makes a feathered offering
or imagines a Christmas friendly,
re-run like a silent brown movie,
maybe the smell of shared tobacco fills the air.
An iron fountain, it’s mouth half open,
sharpening its petals,
knows everything
but it too, is silent;
careless talk costs lives.

Tommy woz here,
Tommy woz here,
graffiti talk,
for Your Country Needs You,
and at the squawk of it,
trees curl their toes,
leaves shake.
 
A finger points,
            blue-eyed cornflowers
stare back from the dead.
Save for a distant chatter of tracks,
there is still no fanfare,
no sound,
nothing.

II
Music quavers in the lattice,
waits to be played again.
Rook plants his claws round the minaret
but he can’t interpret the song;
and even when Sugababes drip into his ears,
and needles make the grass sting,
even when hugs cling to broken railings
and a blond snaps her lover’s face,
                                                minimises it,
before he marches towards an honour-guard of trees,
even then, rook can’t unpick the song.

He circles eight times,
perhaps he prays,
perhaps he makes a feathered offering,
doubts the stories of mass-destruction.
Maybe a smell of peace fills the air.
The iron fountain, with its half-open mouth
knows nothing now
except that talk across the pond costs lives.

Words bounce off screens,
off phones,
off brick walls
Who’s the Daddy,
Who’s the Daddy,
graffiti talk
for a matter of National Security,
and at the squawk of it,
trees curl their toes,
leaves shake.
 
Flowers are tight-lipped,
won’t share the sweet smell of brass-notes.
Nothing grows,
Brown eyes,
blue eyes,
blank eyes
stare from the virtually dead.

Save for a distant trickle of oil in the sand,
there is no sound – nothing.

(Maureen Almond
            Poet-in-Residence, North Lodge Park, 2004-2005)

http://www2.open.ac.uk/ClassicalStudies/GreekPlays/Practitioners/issue2/index.htm

http://www.northumberlandnationalpark.org.uk/news-article.htm?newsid=18413
See my events page for more details.