Kevan Manwaring's Blog: The Bardic Academic, page 6
December 14, 2022
Smooring the Hearth
‘Bank the fire down, my friend,before going to bed.’
A poem about the inbreath of midwinter, the embers of the year, and tending the hearth.
LISTEN TO THE POEM READ BY THE POET
Smooring the Hearth
The clock ticks towards
the midnight chimes.
The sands of the year drain away.
Sip your anaesthetic,
reflect upon all that has gone,
the deeds un/done, the words un/said.
Bank the fire down, my friend,
before going to bed.
The memories glow and fade
like the coal, slow time
locked in its fossil heart.
Each a dream, once cherished,
come morn, a pail of dust
to be scattered on the dormant earth.
The day a squall of rain,
the nights come as fast.
The solsticed sun instructs us
to hiatus, to put down our tools.
Endless struggle, surrender arms,
as the Christmas ceasefire commences.
For a while we no longer
have to be anything.
Merely drop down into our being.
It is okay, friend, we can stop buying.
We can stop pretending to be nice,
so desperate to be loved back,
to be popular. For surely,
this is the measure of success.
That, and how much you own.
What you can show off to visitors,
the guests guessing your soul
from what’s on your shelves.
Shallow the depths of society’s
criteria. As though our lives
are no more than a lifestyle magazine,
a trending meme.
The fire dies down,
and what is discarded
slips through the bars of the grate.
Leaving the sine qua non of embers –
the truth only found
at the eleventh hour,
say, on the eve of execution,
when we face the cold, naked fact
of our mortality, our swift sparrow-flight
the length of a mead-hall.
Yet still, we bank the fire down –
thanking the warmth and light it has
bestowed, its borrowed grace –
in the hope that come dawn,
the last star can rekindle
our wintering king,
before it winks out.
Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring, 2014
If you like my poems, feel free to support my work via Ko-Fi
December 13, 2022
Song of the North Wind
Here is another chilly poem from the bardic vaults – this one from my 2018 collection, Silver Branch: bardic poems & letters to a young bard. In it, I evoke the austere beauty of the Anglo-Saxon poetry I love, eg The Seafarer and other classics from the Exeter Book. Listen to it over a horn of mead, wrapped in furs by your roaring fire, and be glad you and your loved ones are safe (as long as the grim north gods are kept appeased…).
Hear the poem read by the poet
Song of the North WindWild North Wind
frosty breath from the broken teeth of glaciers,
breaching spume of sperm whales,
endless stillness of the taiga,
ineffable fata morgana of the aurora borealis.
Wild North Wind
unsentimental, austere,
you suffer no fools –
cut the wheat from the chaff,
strip bare all illusions.
Wild North Wind
your howling song sends men bosky,
makes seadogs batten down hatches –
become winter stay-at-homes, hearth-tenders, coal-biters,
nurture the fires of families, recite sagas, nurse grudges.
Wild North Wind
grey-cloaked raider, storm-herder,
all bow to your power –
mightiest of winds, bringer of the white death,
the cold kiss of eternal peace.
Wild North Wind
a grim giant striding the land,
heavy boots on rooftops, dislodging drift –
tile-clatterer, sky-strafer,
son of the midnight sun.
Wild North Wind
When will you stop your restless search for vengeance?
When will you cease your blood-feud with summer?
When will your tundra heart thaw?
Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring, 2018
What does it mean to write and perform bardic poetry in the twenty-first century? This monumental collection, from the author of The Bardic Handbook and The Way of Awen, brings together 25 years of selected verse to explore that challenge. The diverse range of poems can be enjoyed for their own sake and will also inspire others to craft and voice their own creative responses to identity, ecology, and community, grounded in the body, the land, and conviction.
Silver Branch includes an introduction to the author’s practice as a performance poet, originally published as Speak Like Rain, along with the Bardic-Chair-winning poem Spring Fall; Bio*Wolf; Green Fire; Dragon Dance; The Taliesin Soliloquies; Thirteen Treasures; poems from the stage shows Arthur’s Dream, Robin of the Wildwood, Return to Arcadia, and Song of the Windsmith; plus more recent bardic poems and songs.
Signed copies available direct from author.
December 12, 2022
Snow Falling in a Scottish Wood
Another wintry poem from the vaults – this one inspired by my stay at a Scottish castle as Writer-in-Residence in 2015…
(Written while Writer-in-Residence, Hawthornden Castle, Nov-Dec 2015)
Listen to my reading of the poem here
After the snow, Hawthornden, K. Manwaring, 2015
The news is given casually over dinner.
Not the bombing, but:
‘It is snowing.’ The first
Of the winter. I venture out.
A white and black world
A game of draughts.
The chill exchange of one mass
For another. Boots sink into
Two, three inches. The castle
Is illumined in fairy tale
Perfection. I hold my
Breath, not wanting to
Break the spell.
The forest beckons.
It is night, but the path
Is lit up by itself – silence
Is dislodged, a thousand
Muffled falls, as though
The undergrowth teams
With wildlife. It is the stuff
That panic is made of.
Risk perverse, I stray
beyond the pale.
The forest revels in its own beauty,
Every lineament delineated by
Kohl and crystal. A deadly
Glamour. This…
View original post 126 more words
The Sound of Snow
I wrote this a few years ago for a collection, The Immanent Moment, but it seems topical! I love the sound of snow…
The Sound of Snow
falling on snow.
A deepening silence.
The city is still,
platforms empty,
roads unburdened
of their incessant freight.
Trees, shuddering in the wind,
exfoliate ice blossom.
There’s probably a word,
in a culture accustomed
and observant of its nuances,
for this kind of snow.
Powdered crystal
over softer layers –
a cake of ground glass –
impossible to roll
into a snow torso,
like making dough
without water.
Churned up by
excited scurryings,
sledge runs,
snowman trails,
the moulds of dog noses,
bird feet runes.
Squeaking polystyrene
under boots,
like some cheap special effect.
To find a snow-field
unmarked by man –
to be the first
to place one’s foot
on virgin regions.
To make one’s mark
and to know it is
the original.
Prototype,
not pirated,
Nth generation
loss of definition.
Not to follow
in the blurred footfalls of others,
but to be the pioneer,
View original post 58 more words
December 11, 2022
Wintering
A sonic pillow-fort to get you through the long, dark nights and chilly days.
THE GOLDEN ROOM episode 6 – WINTERING
December, approaching the year’s darkest night,
and the only way out of the dream is down and through it.
John Gardner
In this episode of The Golden Room we delve into the deep dreaming of Winter, the year’s nadir, when things seem at their bleakest (especially at the moment…). Rather than drown out the howl of the north wind, or blind the darkness with blinking lights, savour the quietude, the long, dark nights and the short, sharp days with their promise of immanence with this selection of music, poetry, and storytelling. Created and hosted by Kevan Manwaring.
LISTEN HERE: https://soundcloud.com/kevan-manwaring/the-golden-room-podcast-6-wintering
TRACK LISTINGS:
Intro – Kevan Manwaring/Reverie – Rosemary DuxburyPolitical Lies – Robin Williamson (from ‘The Iron Stone).The Combe – Edward Thomas (read by KM).Downstream – Esmer.Welcome Song – Chantelle Smith.Northwest Passage/Franklin – David Metcalfe (from ‘Fire Springs…View original post 150 more words
December 4, 2022
A New Beginning: the relaunch of Panorama
Panorama, a travel journal I have been involved in a section-editor, has been relaunched with a new focus. It is now the journal of travel, place, and nature.
The new editor, Matthew Webb, has put together a great issue.
For this issue I was the section editor for Psychgeography, and I commissioned a piece on Sydney, Australia, by the ecopoet, Helen Moore: Beyond White Guilt: imagining Sydney as a pre-colonial site, in which she goes on a ‘biophilic dérive‘, a botanical drift through the city focusing on the natural world.
My own piece about Iceland, ‘Dawn at the Edge of the World‘, is also featured, along with many other great pieces of writing celebrating global and granular perspectives – a wonderful diversity of voices. It is free to read online.
I’ve created a gallery of my midwinter trip to Iceland below.
For future issues of Panorama I will be the section editor for ‘Outdoor Literature’, so watch this space!
FFI: https://panoramajournal.org/
September 4, 2022
The Light Before the Dawn
King of the Wood – Kevan ManwaringThere is a light in the darkness of the world that gleams – and the true of heart, the doughtiest of pilgrims, will finds its flame in the gloom. They know, in their ‘deep heart’s core’, as WB Yeats put it, that it exists – and that the maddening world is changed by its existence. Even the darkness is redeemed. The fallen Earth is transfigured. Even if only one frail light flickers somewhere there is hope. It cannot be put out as long as one person believes. The King of the Wood patiently awaits in His grove of peace, where the world of the noise fades. There, the first bold bird breaks the silence of the long night. Its vigil is over as it heralds the coming day. Even though it cannot be fully seen yet, the first bird knows the true light of the risen sun is on its way, and it starts to sing. The promise of the nimbus is enough.
September 1, 2022
In Pursuit of Summer
A Highland adventure from 2013. A taste of the wild on two wheels.
On the shores of Loch Maree
Life on Shuffle
Arriving to stillness. The patter of tiny raindrops on the slender tent; the baaing of sheep; the wind through the birches; and a distant murmur of life beyond the moor – yet here I feel the delicious solitude. I have arrived at my first destination: the Nine Ladies of Stanton Moor – a small stone circle, surrounded by at least seventy cairns – within a birch grove (nearby is the village of Birchover). It feels good to be on my way – and wild-camping at last (much better than a campsite, which I nearly went to, fatigued from my journey and floundering – yet I persevered; found the Cork Stone entrance and parked up). I made myself some food before striking out across the Moor in the twilight – eager to find the stones and pitch my tent before it got…
View original post 4,912 more words
August 22, 2022
Bardfest ’22 – a review
Bardfest ’22 – a spoken word benefit concert organised by Kevan ManwaringBardfest ’22 was as an evening of creativity in celebration of community across borders. Initially due to be held at the Bridport Arts Centre, but due to the management changing their mind at the last minute (concerns about the Bridport Carnival turned out to be ill-founded), it eventually found a home at the Women’s Institute Hall on North Street. Despite this unfortunate disruption after months of planning, the evening went ahead and flowed smoothly thanks to the good will of all involved and all who came.
After the signage, soundchecks, seating, and altar setting up (in front of the stage by Susan Paramour, who performed later with her band) Bardfest was ready to go. The evening kicked off with the local Wyld Morris, who raised the spirits and blessed the hall with their lovely music, singing and dancing. After a short intermission for folk to mingle and check out the book stall, the main part of the programme got under way.
The organiser and MC, Bridport newbie and 3rd Bard of Bath Kevan Manwaring, introduced the evening with a short meditation on ‘home’ and an original poem written in the early Spring shortly after moving to the town (just as the war in Ukraine was starting in earnest): ‘The Blackbird’s Shadow is Brightness.’ Next, Estelle Phillips was welcomed to the stage who performed a couple of poems from her debut collection published by Jawbone, including ‘Reaper’, which has been translated into Ukrainian. You can watch the powerful video here. This was followed by Estelle’s publisher, Peter Roe – a poet in his own right. His poem about the Cold War was especially resonant. Continuing the run of local talent, we next had (Ged Duncan), Rob Casey, Tom Rogers who entertained us with their monologues (Arthur Thwartle; Wayland the Puppet) and poems. We finished off the first half with a fantastic tale of the Crow King from the Ukraine, by Martin Maudsley. What wordsmiths of West Dorset!
After the break we had talent from further afield – starting with Stroud-based storyteller, Anthony Nanson who regaled us with another Ukrainian tale – that of ‘The Baal Shem Tov and the Flaming Tree’. Next, Tick Rowley, 22nd Bard of Bath, performed her lovely poems; followed by a great story from Kirsty Hartsiotis (also of Stroud and Fire Springs along with Anthony, her husband). Then we returned briefly to Bridport for a muscular performance from poet Dylan Ross. We finished off the evening with two musical acts: Car Dia – a pagan ‘supergroup’ from Glastonbury, Avebury, Salisbury, and the edges who enchanted us with their mighty magical songs; and then Dr Space Toad -all the way from the 7th (or possibly 77th) Dimension, whose Spanish guitar and soulful songs eased us back down to earth.
The evening raised over £200 for the UN Refugee Agency, and was a heartwarming affirmation of creative, inclusive community.
The spoken word & music scene is thriving in the West Country.
May the awen continue to flow!
May 13, 2022
‘Caught Between Stations’: Orlam by PJ Harvey – review
friends to the rooks
redstarts and hawk-moth
friends to the phantoms
caught between stations
‘Ash’, extract from Orlam by PJ Harvey
This is the 2nd collection by twice-Mercury Prize winner musician PJ Harvey, and it astonishes, disturbs, provokes, and exhilarates as much as her impressive back-catalogue. Drawing upon her own Dorset childhood, ‘especially its landscape and folklore’, this verse-novel set over a year tells the story of the 9-year old Ira-Abel Rawles and her dark miseducation amid a cast of sinister and comical grotesques, not least her own family and her monstrous father. Seeking solace in the local Gore Woods, she develops a strange relationship with a Christ-like ghost soldier called Twyman-Elvis. The work is steeped in local folklore and is written in the Dorset dialect, which offers a pungent word-hoard, e.g. ‘button-crawler’ (wood-louse); ‘chattermag’ (magpie); ‘chawly-whist’ (ashamed); ‘dungy’ (downcast, dull); ‘farterous’ (father-like); and ‘red bread’ (vagina) to give but a few examples. By adopting this approach Harvey picks up the baton left by Dorset’s unofficial laureate, the 19th Century polymath Willam Barnes, and carries it into the modern era. The ecolect is enervated by its juxtaposition to the grubby remnants of contemporaneity: abandoned cars, condoms, ‘a car battery/ a jerry-can/the electric fence’. This is poetry of the Anthropocene by way of Radiohead’s ‘green plastic watering can.’
Yet here the fossil record is the protagonist’s own embodied memory box, unearthed and picked through. It is as though Harvey herself is showing us the mulch of her imaginarium. Although she emphasises this is a ’work of the imagination’ it is hard not to see the development of her darkly distinctive style as a songwriter, singer and musician in these (possibly) analogous experiences. How much autoethnographical material the poet draws upon, only she and her closest friends and family could say – but there is a sense of a coded confessional here.
Yet such a reading risks intentional fallacy; and the calendrical sequence can be savoured for its own literary merits. It is a heady, often disturbing brew – a deep dive into the psychogeography of Dorset, which shows how the hills and dells shaped the lives of those who live among them. Avoiding nostalgia and the pastoral, Harvey seems at pains to deconstruct any hoary notion of a rural idyll: there is abuse, bestiality, violence, madness, sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll – Harvey’s own musical chops now doubt informing the latter. Pop culture references intermingle with the folkloric, the Biblical, and the literary. Everything is entangled, as though one has come a-cropper down a Dorset Holloway.
And yet the poems themselves are disciplined, without an ounce of fat upon them. Pared back, at times brutally so, the reader is left to interpret the negative space of what isn’t said. Harvey obfuscates and occludes, but this makes their magic more potent: many have the lexical energy of spells and charms (as do some of her songs), and at times they are reminiscent of the loricas and incantations of Alexander Carmichael’s Carmina Gaedelica.
Yet here in the West Country is something as numinous and destabilising of consensus reality as anything from the rarefied fastness of the Highlands: a secret commonwealth of sooneres (ghosts), bedraggled angels (wet sheep) and veäries (fairies). The supernatural element is pervasive. All is watched over the titular ‘Orlam’ – the all-seeing eye of a dead lamb, Mallory-Sonny. Miscarriages, premature births, afterbirths, the still-born, and ‘ash-wraiths’ of lost children haunt the woods of Ira-Abel’s world. Along with the more-than-human, this crowded ecology evokes an animistic paradigm informed by an indigeneity perhaps stretching back, like Laurie Lee’s Slad, to the end of the Ice Age.
Certain there is a strong sense of vertiginous deep place; and yet also something atemporal and beyond the material, as in Dylan Thomas’ dream-town of Llareggub. And the way Harvey ranges between lives and voices evokes Under Milk Wood. At times Orlam‘s heteroglossia feels like a spirit-radio. Out of the crackle and hiss of white noise, the ‘noiseless noise’, emerge the lost voices of the marginalized. And this echoes the liminal status of its viewpoint character who straddles the perilous terrain between girlhood and womanhood – and at its heart Orlam is a bildungsroman about her coming-of-age. Which codes and signals should she heed, and which should she ignore? The whispers in the static – the voices of the dead, the earth – often come through the loudest; whileas the living cast become shadowy presences whose baleful influences, like a Hardyesque heroine, she struggles to escape.
The uncompromising use of dialect (counter-balanced by the translations by Don Paterson, Harvey’s poetry mentor) creates a similar effect to Russel Hoban’s Riddley Walker; or the dark speech of Paul Kingsnorth’s The Wake. And yet this remarkable tour-de-force is 100% PJ Harvey – it shows the sui generis workings of an arrestingly original voice. It is a sequence worth delving back into again and again to find riches – echoing the biodiversity one can find in a quiet Dorset backlane where beauty and ugliness, death and the maiden, and the sacred and profane can rub shoulders on any day of the year.
Kevan Manwaring, 13 May 2022
Orlam is published by Picador
A Dorset ‘holway’ (Dorset dialect: holloway) – Kevan Manwaring 2022
PJ Harvey in the Dorset archives
Know you every tree-tear
in these woods, every place
of good and not-good,
‘tween sleep and wake
and bellyache, each path
unhealed and stumpied.
‘A Noiseless Noise’, extract from Orlam by PJ Harvey
