Chris Armstrong's Blog: CuratedLines, page 11

Innocent

Chris

If you read about me on the back cover of The Dark Trilogy, you will discover that once – for some ten years or so – I sailed the seas:

Sailor and librarian, navigator and researcher, teacher and trainer, and—always—a traveller: Chris Armstrong has had three careers, working as a merchant seaman…

Book II of the Trilogy explores my first faltering years at sea: young, innocent, at sea in more ways than one, working on a ship where it seemed that everyone knew so much more than I ...

Welsh Rapper Wins International Poetry Book Awards

_______________ Curated Lines Publishing _________________________

Rufus Mufasa was announced overall winner of this prestigious competition in Pontypridd today.  Judged by Welsh writer, poet and environmental activist John Evans.

Second place went to Australian performance poet Caroline Reid for her book, ‘Siarad’ and Jenny Rowbory came third. It should be noted that Jenny’s book is the next big push in her Herculean fundraising attempt for life-saving surgery in the US, which is not available t...

Introducing Trystan Lewis, poet

_______________ Curated Lines Publishing _________________________

In The Dark Trilogy, Trystan Lewis the poet, my fictional alter ego, has his work and his life examined through the critical lens of his scholarly friend and editor. Trystan’s scholarly childhood – lifelong – friend knows him so well! So well that in explaining the poem at the heart of the story he puts Trystan’s life and his writing under a microscope! As only he could! And he finds that there is so much to tell… as you will...

It all started with a poem…

Innocent

     he met a force

Untried

            it held him

… and wonder drained the world of substance

            re-arranged the pages of his book to give more radiant

                                                                                    a reading…

It is about a life: the poet’s life, my life… and as The Dark Trilogy would have it, my lives.

The post It all started with a poem… first appeared on _______________ Curated Lines Publishing.

What inspires you to write? they ask

This is such a difficult question! There is no definitive answer. 

All that I can say is that both of my books, all of my (as yet unpublished) short stories and all of my poems would never have come into being without some hook to hang them on. Some germ of an idea. That may sound obvious, but I mean to say that I cannot manufacture an idea and work it up, it has to slip into my mind unasked!

I find it impossible to start with the idea that today I will write a poem. Or a short story. Inst...

Coincidences

When I told this story to a friend, he responded with the unexplained and, I thought, unhelpful comment that a lot had been written about coincidences, and I suppose he may well have been surprised when – immediately – I did not understand his thinking or recognise the link… or he may have realised that I had simply not got that far on in the volume he had recently given me – Paul Auster’s Collected Prose. Some days later – I could see why he had spoken as he did.

There is a whole section of...

Coincidences

 When I told this story to a friend, he responded with the unexplained and, I thought, unhelpful comment that a lot had been written about coincidences, and I suppose he may well have been surprised when - immediately - I did not understand his thinking or recognise the link... or he may have realised that I had simply not got that far on in the volume he had recently given me - Paul Auster's Collected Prose.Now - some days later - I can see why he spoke as he did. 

There is a whole section of short essays in which Auster recounts a number of strange, linked events - maybe two or three meetings, letters or telephone calls - that were all completely independent but at the same time were linked by a place, a person or, in one case, a song - his daughter singing and moments later a slip of paper fluttering from a new book with the first line of that same song, and nothing else, written on it. Having read these, I cannot pretend that my own single coincidence of timing is so remarkable, but nevertheless no other single word describes the almost magical juxtaposition of timing and relevance. 

I was sitting at my desk - this desk - composing and typing a new poem. I always compose at the keyboard, although somewhere at the back of mind I am conscious that it is not the romantic image of a poet scribbling in notebooks replete with crossings out and corrections that people imagine... but having written this way professionally for so long, I find that I compose as easily, type faster than I could write and can make corrections or changes of order so easily on the fly that anything else would be simply too pedestrian. On this day, I was writing a short poem that reflected a mood caused, I suppose, by the  fact that I had been confined to my cottage for about five weeks due to Covid-19 that was sweeping through country after country and with, in my mind, echoes of a podcast about the Beat Poets - Allen Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Gregory Corso. The poem, my poem, was called Corona Sutra, and to anyone who knows Ginsberg, the title and the last line, a direct quotation from him - 'The gray Sunflower poised against the sunset' - will be familiar. I had reached a couple of lines from where I expected to end and was just beginning to search my mind for a word or phrase that would perfectly describe new - fresh - life emerging from oceans when my iPad, which was also on my desk, pinged. I have on it an online dictionary that I use from time to time to check meanings or to find an alternative - a better alternative - word and the software is set to display a word of the day, most of which are entirely unremarkable - I think I have only followed up to discover a new word on half a dozen occasions over the years. But this time, as if it had been following my typing, with all its pauses for thought and correction, with the greatest attention, it presented me - precisely in the second I paused - with the word I needed... a word I probably would not have considered although I was sure that I had heard it used before. Not immediately able to remember but feeling that I should know its meaning, maybe I even had some premonition,  I gave in and followed the link. The word was 'ylem' which means the initial substance from which all matter is said to be derived. Reader, I used it! How could I not have done so? Here is the poem.

Corona Sutra

 

And when in that world dusk
The last Adam has
His Eve despaired
And weeps to lie beside her
In civilisation's arid dust -
Will he still hear each ragged breath
Yield to time's dull pressure
Will promises of redemption
Still echo empty above the void
And will his fading mind despair: 
Those mighty kingdoms of the world
Laid low by national pride
Those peoples who might
Destiny have thrust aside

 

And as the dry winds barren blow
Or some ylem sea-splashes to a desert shore
Will there be yet a God
Watching over the wasted land
Or did he only on Adam's passing in memory leave
The gray Sunflower poised against the sunset

 

What comes next?

 In The Dark Trilogy, I created a literary alter ego - Trystan Lewis - named Trystan as I had a vague idea when I began writing to link him in some way with the Tristan in The Romance of Tristan and Iseult. I never found a way to make that work but kept the name! Lewis, the surname, after the old nickname I had been given when I first went to sea, Louis (as in Louis Armstrong or Satchmo). A few months ago I was reading an article about James Joyce which reminded me that Stephen Dedalus was Joyce's literary alter ego and, in turn, that reminded me of my original plan... and I began plotting... planning... and a new book was born! While I have made no attempt to write a modern version, all of the main chapters are named for the chapters in the Romance and each chapter has thematic links and some reference point to the original. Character names are all drawn from the original: for example, Trystan's friend George Knight is named for Gorvenal (the word means knight). The story follows Trystan and George through a twenty-four hour period and deals with fate and the downwards spiral of events caused by drink, much in the way of Charles Jackson's The Lost Weekend. Although the story is centred in a small Welsh town, as with much of my writing the sea is central to, and surrounds, the story and among many, often hidden, literary allusions, Moby Dick is referenced at both the beginning (Trystan "sailed about a little [on] the watery part of the world") and the end ("the great shroud of the sea rolled on") of the story.

 So Trystan lives on! 

I do like the idea of extending story lines so, as well as Trystan, characters from The Dark Trilogy also appear in, and indeed are the subject of, several of my short stories.

I have a publishing programme planned and expect to publish a poetry chapbook before the short story collection. Trystan and a further collection of poems should follow soon after that. [Order of publication is subject to change!]

Watch this space!

What inspires you to write? they ask

This is such a difficult question! There is no definitive answer. 

All that I can say is that both of my books, all of my (as yet unpublished) short stories and all of my poems would never have come into being without some hook to hang them on. Some germ of an idea. That may sound obvious, but I mean to say that I cannot manufacture an idea and work it up, it has to slip into my mind unasked!

I find it impossible to start with the idea that today I will write a poem. Or a short story. Instead, something will trigger a thought and I will know that I need to be at my desk. The Dark Trilogy came into being because, I began to feel after rereading it post publication that one of my poems - an obliquely autobiographical poem - Retrospective, published in Mostly Welsh - needed some explanation; and my current work began after I read a sentence that resonated with me in an article about James Joyce! 

A much harder question is How do you write?

I rarely plan a story line or a plot - or indeed a poem - I allow them to grow symbiotically, naturally. Lots of revisions and editing, of course, but the story or poem writes itself - almost without any conscious thought. I once wrote a piece, Kamel Daoud, Black Dogs and Writing

It's so right and yet so wrong! Kamel Daoud, the French-Algerian writer and journalist - describes perfectly the experience, his experience of writing and I instantly relate to it but at the same time his imagery upsets me because somehow for me it just doesn't work - the idea of a dog inside my head pushing my thoughts - my unthought, subliminal, subconscious thoughts - out through my pen or keyboard onto the page is a little disturbing; I think, because of the association of dogs running wild, running amok, with madness. Is there such an association or is that just me? I don't know. I'm not going to look it up. It is what is there for me.

So how would I put it. I think it is one of the more difficult things to describe. I rarely plan a piece of writing - even this piece of writing - beyond the initial idea, the hook on which the piece - or the poem - hangs. And beyond that I have to treat prose and poetry separately - although the same lack of consciously planned structure or planned plot is true of both. Perhaps it is just more true of prose. Often the hook is no more than the title and then a first sentence or line, and we're off. I type as fast as the words come to my mind and somehow know when I have mistyped and return to make the correction before plunging on. Of course there are pauses for thought, but they are rarely for planning or story construction. And of course when I come to the end of a section or the end of a poem, I re-read it, go back over it and make changes - a better word, a reversal of syntax for better emphasis or for a smoother run of words as it is read. But the body of the work just ran onto the page through my fingers at the keyboard.

I do not know what is in my head throwing words at my fingers as fast as they can leap over the keyboard. Like Daoud's dog, something leaps across the world collecting ideas and facts - and let's not pretend there is no Internet, sometimes I check on facts or the correct usage of a word that the dog - let's call him that for the moment - has sent me. But so far in this piece I have paused at each paragraph and once mid way through the second paragraph for my dog to catch his breath, otherwise - without pause for conscious thought - I have just typed. I do not understand the process, I suppose, any more than Daoud does - inspiration from a divine animal, he says, and I can live with that idea although suggestions of the divine are perhaps a bit heady for me! I think I prefer his image of being a translator, an instrument, of my head being someone else's fingertip. There are of course more pauses with poems, particularly if they are to rhyme - a perfect rhyme doesn't always come easily - and there are far more changes - for balance, for sense, even just to make a rhyme work. As I approach[ed] the end of a long work of quasi-fiction, a Trilogy, which I began without any real idea of how the story line would mature, I have to confess that the third book is taking more thought, more conscious thought, and there have been moments of editorial correction to the earlier volumes to ensure continuance. But my uber-dog, ubermensch maybe, still has control! The fingertip is still pressing down gently. (I just went back and changed the word 'arrogant' to 'heady'.)

Anyone who has read my poems will have come across nautical imagery, so perhaps I can suggest that the idea - the hook - the anchor - gets dropped into the waves and the disturbance immediately causes a splash - the first sentence, line or verse - and then an endless flow of ripples back towards me to splash onto my empty beach. Each ripple another set of words - I use that phrase to avoid the word, 'thought' - that flow out onto the page. Other ripples reach the other bank and come back to me at an angle slicing across my wake to disturb the flow.

So there we are: I have a pond in my head. Is that better than a black dog. I think so!  

An Innocent Abroad!

 If you read about me on the back cover of The Dark Trilogy, you will discover that once - for some ten years or so - I sailed the seas:

Sailor and librarian, navigator and researcher, teacher and trainer, and—always—a traveller: Chris Armstrong has had three careers, working as a merchant seaman...

Book II of the Trilogy explores my first faltering years at sea: young, innocent, at sea in more ways than one, working on a ship where it seemed that everyone knew so much more than I! I once wrote a poem about joining my first ship:

Innocence 

The London mist wets the docks and the decks

of my first ship on the day that I join;

I am alone at the rail: there are barges, a tug

 

of loneliness in my chest. This sea,

the sea in the docks, is dirty brown

rainbow oily, scummed with ship droppings,

 

a lone plank of timber floating like a lost

surfboard - I think of the sun on Gower waves.

I left home young and immediately

 

uncompanioned by strangers,  was lost

to all they knew, drowning in the isolation

of my new-learned bewilderment

 

wondering if I shall ever know the pleasure

of girls' bodies as their talk suggest they do.

Loaded, this ship is as empty as my soul

Book II of The Trilogy - a play for voices - begins:

 Imagine:

This is how it begins...

It is early Spring, it is afternoon: dismal dock drizzle hazes everything beneath each yellow damp lampglow and dulls the docker din and the winch whine as cargo is loaded. A smell that is a mixture of the salt sea, old oil, steam, old and filthy dock water, smoke from the barge tugs, sweat and stale beer is held down against the ground by the wet mist...
They have travelled by train, by underground and finally by taxi to get here: his mother and his father guiding him for the last time - guiding him through a geography he does not yet know. All of his life, they have guided him, directed him, helped him, pushed him, and now their time is at an end. Neither the boy nor they have recognised this change...