tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44219785846073287982024-03-12T18:32:11.901-07:00Pat WinslowPat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-26244275263326355042023-01-22T13:39:00.002-08:002023-01-22T13:57:37.625-08:00Rearrangements<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6nnpRH3n3PsW1lqzNbp37_ywKH-BLzbzr2BS9LKcgs5bpUVWyZU2z8vtvS2CwE6W8XgYoXZBIlvENGgtuHhn8D0bq8nk3fuoT0g03wHGprSDWDYlOBWRDZS7tfzLcrydVN1ayFpQ7bjv7MAG4HFTTeVcsp0jq_0l0t0EmBtJHb0orkhLr0ZfggI9/s2080/IMG_20220328_154013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="2080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6nnpRH3n3PsW1lqzNbp37_ywKH-BLzbzr2BS9LKcgs5bpUVWyZU2z8vtvS2CwE6W8XgYoXZBIlvENGgtuHhn8D0bq8nk3fuoT0g03wHGprSDWDYlOBWRDZS7tfzLcrydVN1ayFpQ7bjv7MAG4HFTTeVcsp0jq_0l0t0EmBtJHb0orkhLr0ZfggI9/w400-h300/IMG_20220328_154013.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I'm not quite sure where the time has gone, but it seems I never have enough of it to sit down and update this blog. I'm too busy juggling jobs. Or swimming. Or cycling. Or camping. Or seeing friends. <p></p><p>Two years have gone by. We've emerged from the pandemic to pick up the pieces, though our recovery is way behind that of other European countries. Our poor beleaguered NHS is facing sustained pressure - handclaps were never going to pay the bills - and people's incomes are dropping like stones. As if the pain of recovery were not enough, the world is embroiled in yet another war. Meanwhile, the planet...</p><p>So yes, there is a mood of despondency and there is very real anger out there, yet people continue to inspire and shine a light in the darkness.</p><p>In 2021 I had the good fortune to be involved with a multi-arts project working across six different community hospitals in Oxfordshire. Older people and those who are frail tend to spend a long time on the ward. It doesn't matter how hard nurses and doctors work, how warm and compassionate they are, people just want to be home amongst familiar faces and in their own bed. Enter a team of talented visual artists, a movement practitioner, a musician and a poet... We didn't disrupt the routine - the delivery of quality healthcare is paramount - but we did bring in ideas and adventures. </p><p>Here's a film made by the wonderful Emma Spellman which should give you a sense of some of the amazing things we achieved. Hats off to my colleagues. They are wonderful artists and I was very proud to be part of such a fantastic team.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzdigtaHS48szBCUuO6jbbGANRp7rxFJMvACgSbv0jhsAH5uq2lnkfqtt5Vu400r5ewVpfMlITevPaP5OmTgA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p></p></blockquote><p>If you need a film maker, do check out Emma's website <span style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="https://www.oojamaflick.com/">Oojamaflick </a></b></span>. She has a terrific portfolio. </p><p>I know I keep saying this, but it really is a privilege to work in our hospitals. I have enormous admiration for people's dedication and professionalism, especially after everything they've been through in recent years. And here's a special mention for those who keep the wards clean and change the bedding. You never see them in TV series, but they are part of the fabric of a hospital. They keep everyone going with their jokes and stories. They are often the social glue in what is a very busy day for staff.</p><p>On 1st December 2021 it was my turn to be in hospital when I became the proud owner of a new knee! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Eexnsqb1O1Jy_BklAJMVSaFEzOjGFdIfhIdIgNlDubvzXttDbCHkVTcqE2q9MyukwBwz3lnBcfl-W6p_ck0GEIsZADF1-jdBizoLKn4Nt2sZt__RyuW9LBjMbrY4RS7kZMRx14vMAcDRy_6Wl61DD-nzTnRNUUf82J8_piJS-IL11Ajf5s9SBiRP/s460/tkr-s-procedure.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="460" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Eexnsqb1O1Jy_BklAJMVSaFEzOjGFdIfhIdIgNlDubvzXttDbCHkVTcqE2q9MyukwBwz3lnBcfl-W6p_ck0GEIsZADF1-jdBizoLKn4Nt2sZt__RyuW9LBjMbrY4RS7kZMRx14vMAcDRy_6Wl61DD-nzTnRNUUf82J8_piJS-IL11Ajf5s9SBiRP/s320/tkr-s-procedure.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This shiny little bit of kit on the right doesn't come cheap. Hours of research and engineering went into it. The Oxford Knee is famous the world over. It's been refined and perfected several times since the day I got run over by a bus and ended up having a tendon transfer and a cartilage removed. 'Get back on your bike,' the surgeon told me. I thought he was joking, but he was absolutely serious. 'You're going to get arthritis. If you want to stay active and keep fit and healthy, start cycling again.' <p></p><p>Apart from the endless fun and all the adventures I've had on various bikes over the decades, his advice proved sound. When my knee started to stick, I knew it was time to get a TKR. Prolonged aching is one thing. Stabbing sensations and sudden locking at traffic lights is quite another. I'd lasted 18 years longer than he predicted and it was only due to the daily bike ride. Basically, I was fit enough for the replacement. They do say you should try and improve fitness and nutrition before surgery if you're able to. I remember doing a mad bike ride in driving snow a week or two before the operation. It was our last adventure together. Now my old knee is ashes in some landfill and I have a shiny little bit of technology doing her job.</p><p>Thank you again NHS. You deserve every penny you can get. I hope you all get your pay rises and I hope the service thrives, never mind survives, long into the next century, assuming we haven't all murdered ourselves and burnt the planet to a crisp by then.</p><p>What next? Hours of physio - and let's hear it for physiotherapists now, because they really do get called some rotten names. They're only trying to get us mobile and independent again. Of course it hurts to increase the range of movement, but improvement comes incrementally, day by day, a little at a time, building strength, gaining confidence. Thousands of pounds are spent on these operations and we can't be bothered to do 30 minutes or so each day? Can you imagine how frustrating that is when so much is ploughed into our care? To ignore their advice is disrespectful. I've seen how hard they work and how much they care about patient wellbeing. In any case, I was really keen to get back on my bike, and I'd booked a two-month writing retreat in the Outer Hebrides. I was hardly going to be able to drive all the way up there if I lounged around not being bothered.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZWQP3DMFxR8XOpkApncfw24568ZGJ4zlPxBX4upTvZrL7rfNGgE3RPwK6Buv8pZNkWKfY_m1jQ3nG4Fv7mowkypccAsO0XDvVtBYD1KwgAI6ZTnXqrZHkoAB6y4rqSl3OJIU9utu3YQ0xOlV0RZaeo2SddOaSGe9dBJgbViWaowe9P0GJ-HP9r5_/s2080/IMG_20220305_140101.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="2080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZWQP3DMFxR8XOpkApncfw24568ZGJ4zlPxBX4upTvZrL7rfNGgE3RPwK6Buv8pZNkWKfY_m1jQ3nG4Fv7mowkypccAsO0XDvVtBYD1KwgAI6ZTnXqrZHkoAB6y4rqSl3OJIU9utu3YQ0xOlV0RZaeo2SddOaSGe9dBJgbViWaowe9P0GJ-HP9r5_/s320/IMG_20220305_140101.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This is what I was aiming towards. It took three months eventually. Hebridean weather is not massively conducive to cycling. We're talking 60 mph winds here. I did eventually get used to cycling in 40 mph, but it was hard work and it was, quite frankly, terrifying. The causeways between the lochans are low and a sudden gust could pitch you into the water if you weren't careful. I know I have a love of open water swimming, but these little lakes were far colder than anything I've ever swum in.<br /><p>I was rediscovering my love of walking, anyway. Every day I walked for miles along white sandy beaches, down to the loch and up occasional hills. </p><p>The Isle of Benbecula is distinctly flat. It's moody and dark and strangely beautiful. No two moments are the same. One minute it's gloriously sunny, the next it's viciously windy and hail is driving at you like hundreds of deracinated teeth, then oh, a rainbow plants itself at your feet and burns the madness away. Small and sudden dramas and an ever changing light. It's an artist's dream, I suppose, but I would never be quick enough to capture any of it.</p><p>I was writing a novel, in any case. Far from the noise of the quotidian - the traffic, the planes, phones and ringtones, DIY enthusiasts, road repairs, dogs barking at window cleaners, dogs barking at people going past, Amazon deliveries, the blare of TVs, adverts, junk mail - noise, all of it. Not that Benbecula was quiet - but there is a difference between sound and noise and I was quickly discovering how profound that difference is.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IWgUGEWLBIHvFufVZ39pGnGlV4oq46liQ4I2DfZZxG6UEXy-Yxh-J9DFq5YqeWzm7q1FY-PCJX9sLgZtPPjWvC0lkadQlGN3jObG37VSF9S51sATHx2m8X0zEIFCCXRaSV4lZVFBCM9INfQLyzK17vR4EsnEM0Bz2M8T4pYOQHGIsxJMNO9YR7FF/s2080/IMG_20220210_161417.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="2080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IWgUGEWLBIHvFufVZ39pGnGlV4oq46liQ4I2DfZZxG6UEXy-Yxh-J9DFq5YqeWzm7q1FY-PCJX9sLgZtPPjWvC0lkadQlGN3jObG37VSF9S51sATHx2m8X0zEIFCCXRaSV4lZVFBCM9INfQLyzK17vR4EsnEM0Bz2M8T4pYOQHGIsxJMNO9YR7FF/s320/IMG_20220210_161417.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Suddenly, I was writing several thousand words a day. I don't say it was necessarily good writing, but the point is, I was writing. I had the head space to think, to reflect, to turn something over and over before crafting it into some sort of shape. Eventually, I got into a rhythm. 45 minutes of physio before breakfast, a decent little feast of local produce, then a solid block of writing till about 2 o'clock. After than I would do a bit of shopping perhaps, and then walk for one, maybe two hours. The days were short. Darkness fell around 4 o'clock . It was important to make the most of each day. After a late lunch, I might go back to writing for a while, and then I'd light the fire and relax till bedtime.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_HShTP3tMo7Sj3ESOKWHV0Tcx8V7AIYQXovxyr6XVJKhReBT0o-RJQixiuesgRUB7PpjFxicSULyuu8OugFewZgQGUWsVOu-LCg2_qgmybjCzJ3Ewisc9FiWtb4rWaqg9VCoL4BuYa1d8Tq_YgvHvKLEjunMqvLw7WmHLLDsqRbEINonbf5F1DY7/s2080/IMG_20220207_203744.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="2080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_HShTP3tMo7Sj3ESOKWHV0Tcx8V7AIYQXovxyr6XVJKhReBT0o-RJQixiuesgRUB7PpjFxicSULyuu8OugFewZgQGUWsVOu-LCg2_qgmybjCzJ3Ewisc9FiWtb4rWaqg9VCoL4BuYa1d8Tq_YgvHvKLEjunMqvLw7WmHLLDsqRbEINonbf5F1DY7/s320/IMG_20220207_203744.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Gradually, I became more still and centred. People were worried that I'd be lonely, but this never happened. I valued the absence of a phone signal, though I welcomed the time I set aside for emails and WhatsApp calls. And I rejoiced in the ancient art of letter writing. <div><br /></div><div>I began to notice a heightened sense of smell. I seemed to be living in a perpetual dream of kelp and burning heather. Even my clothes smelt of it. And taste intensified. I have never eaten such an eggy egg as the Benbecula egg, or tasted such porridgey porridge.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was sound that surprised me most. Curlews, oystercatchers, teal, the wren nesting in the satellite dish, the solitary blackbird that had only one tune because what's the point of learning another one if you're the only blackbird for miles around and there's no one to compete with, and the slow flap-flap of geese across the lochan. On one particularly still day when there was hardly a breeze to ruffle the page of my notebook, I sat outside with my eyes closed and listened. Slowly, I became aware of a tiny papery sound to the left of where I was sitting. I opened my eyes and looked down. It was a bee in the trumpet of a daffodil. It's a sound I had never heard before and probably shall never hear again. I realised then what an impoverished life we have if all we know is the garish hyperbole of capitalist enterprise.</div><div><br /></div><div>We can't live in stillness forever, unless we make a commitment to a life of seclusion. People do. Nuns and monks, hermits. Some of them even call that life silent. But silence doesn't exist, unless you're in a vacuum, and then you wouldn't be able to breathe. You'd be dead. Death isn't silent either. Decay is busy. All our photons will be passing through someone or something else long after we've gone. The universe never stops growing or changing. It's like the sea which keeps rearranging things. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seclusion is useful, though. It enabled me to be enormously productive and it flipped a trip switch in my case, because when I returned to noise I found I really couldn't settle in my old ways. Nothing seemed to fit any more. I slipped into work again - happily slipped into it - but my living arrangement had to change and so I am moving house and setting up entirely on my own this time. It won't be perfect. Nothing is. But it will be different, and I will continue learning. </div><div><br /></div><div>And what of the refugees who have fled something far worse than noise? What peace will they find, I wonder? The woman from Mariupol I met one day when I was out cycling this summer, who was due to give birth in the autumn, the Syrian couple who were out walking with their new baby the other week, the people who are living in camps and prepared to risk their lives on a leaking boat. What future awaits these people?</div><div><br /></div><div>Seclusion is all very well, but there's a big world out there and we are a part of it. We're all a part of the change. How that change happens and what shape it assumes is up to us.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-40512186533287795822020-09-20T12:45:00.003-07:002020-10-02T05:07:25.911-07:00Reasons to be cheerful - part 1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="paragraph" style="background-color: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "Quattrocento Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #3387a2;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="paragraph" style="background-color: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "Quattrocento Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #3387a2;"><span style="font-size: xx-large;">Smile Inside</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></span><br /><br />iID have been asking participants who are self-isolating what makes them smile inside. A group of artists have been commissioned to respond to their answers. You can see their work on <strong><a href="https://www.iid.org.uk/smile-inside" style="color: #b9b9b9; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 300ms ease 0s;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3387a2;">iID's website</span></a></strong>. My poems were inspired by <span style="color: #3387a2;"><strong><a href="https://www.iid.org.uk/copy-of-ken" style="color: #b9b9b9; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 300ms ease 0s;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3387a2;">Stephen</span></a></strong> </span>and <strong><a href="https://www.iid.org.uk/copy-of-pat-h" style="color: #b9b9b9; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 300ms ease 0s;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3387a2;">Gladys</span></a></strong>.<br /><br />Here is the filmpoem that Gladys inspired. <strong><a href="https://www.andersonvideography.co.uk/" style="color: #b9b9b9; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 300ms ease 0s;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3387a2;">Peter Anderson</span></a></strong> is a fabulous videographer and it has been an absolute pleasure working with him. </div><div class="paragraph" style="background-color: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "Quattrocento Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px;">Enjoy!</div><div class="paragraph" style="background-color: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "Quattrocento Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/455209397" title="vimeo-player" width="640"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I'll also be reading my 2nd placed winning poem at the online <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Poetry London</b></span> launch </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">on <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Thursday 15th October at 7 o'clock</b></span>. </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Click <a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/poetry-london-autumn-2020-online-readings-tickets-121205802819" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">here</span><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span></b></a>to get your ticket. </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There's a fabulous line-up. I'm very chuffed to be in such good company.</span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p></p>Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-56508987849581605762020-08-01T04:43:00.008-07:002020-08-07T16:02:51.827-07:00Watching and Listening. But What Next?No post since the end of January when I was carping on about my local swimming pool. Little did I think that I'd be glad for the opportunity to swim around like a fish in a tank for the next few months! We never see what's coming, do we?<div><br /></div><div>Or we do, and we just sit on it. I was, in fact, watching with absolute horror, as the news unfolded in China. China might be far away from the UK, but humans have made the planet small with all our comings and goings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, in between times...</div><div><br /></div><div>There was the absolute joy of working with <b><a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/"><font color="#783f04">Oxford Concert Party</font></a></b> again, this time in Kirtlington Primary School, and renewing our working relationship with Filda from <b><a href="https://identitywithoutborders.glam.ox.ac.uk/bk-luwo-group"><font color="#783f04">BK-LUWO</font></a></b>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Filda had been wanting to take the Ugandan folk story about Kamdenge further. It's a story that has been close to her heart for a long time. Like her, Kamdenge is a refugee. Like all refugees he has to make trustworthy friends and be resourceful, smart and brave. He also has to be true to himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Filda told the assembled school some of her own personal story and then she told the folk tale. We had, from that point, just five and a half weeks to turn it into a play - ie. write the script, write the music, rehearse the play and songs, make the props and costumes, before performing it for parents and the women of BK-LUWO. </div><div><br /></div><div>The <i>entire </i>school? </div><div>Yes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Five and half weeks? </div><div>Impossible. </div><div><br /></div><div>But -</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Children's memories are extraordinary. </div><div>2. If children are enthused, their imaginations soar.</div><div>3. If something is fun, important and worthwhile, they'll commit themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFLuzDS4Y42oTNSTEe1qiOXBipGjgffhhrdPvdFokLIU8gkqltoz5k5S8ku_SPuVKfaI8LkgMInV8GJSKA_kKylHwPDwgh22TPmFdV-_x-_GnNDTj4xVnBEfBR9OTgwrp7_COUZqIPRk/s2048/Kamdenge+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1447" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFLuzDS4Y42oTNSTEe1qiOXBipGjgffhhrdPvdFokLIU8gkqltoz5k5S8ku_SPuVKfaI8LkgMInV8GJSKA_kKylHwPDwgh22TPmFdV-_x-_GnNDTj4xVnBEfBR9OTgwrp7_COUZqIPRk/s640/Kamdenge+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>By the end of our next session, the whole school had learnt our first song and I had a fabulous script writing team from Year 6. </div><div><br /></div><div>We pretty much nailed the script in two sessions. These were the main actors, so they had a vested interest in good writing! They were not just quick and inspired, but they worked really well collectively. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, Arne and Isabel were assembling a chorus, dancing flames, marching soldiers, crested cranes, a rhinoceros, sacred ibis, peacocks, flamingos, an elephant, an antelope and a monkey. </div><div><br /></div><div>The set began evolving early on, too - palm trees, backdrops, screens. <b><a href="https://www.anthonylloyd.co.uk/"><font color="#783f04">Tony Lloyd</font></a></b>, who I know as a superb printmaker and sculptor, turned out to be a maker extraordinaire. He made an absolutely convincing fridge full of food for one of the characters to wear, which brought the house down. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was an array of musical instruments to learn to use and - as always - we had to mark out the playing space after lunch for each visit. We had warm afternoons and long sessions with the whole school which was tiring for us, but even more so for the children. Despite this, and with much encouragement from the teachers, they gave the rehearsals their all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our final performance was a big hit and Filda's daughter Grace, an inspiring woman herself, led the school out of the hall in huge vibrant snaking dance.</div><div><br /></div><div>We would have very much liked to have taken the show to the community, but the world was beginning to close down one country after another, and we were not long to follow. I hope everyone felt sustained by the fantastic achievement in the following months. When the children are older and look back on 2020, I hope they remember that there was one story over and beyond the daily news that helped shaped their understanding of the world - a story of survival, ingenuity and compassion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arts work has become dormant. On the surface, at least. An artist never stops working, of course. In fact, for some of us, lockdown became a period of intense creativity. Normally I'm running around like a headless chicken. Having the luxury to write, read widely and think has allowed me to develop my own work. Normally, I spend the majority of my time facilitating other people's creative journeys. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some interesting commissions have come my way. One is <b><a href="https://www.iid.org.uk/smile-inside"><font color="#783f04">Smile Inside</font></a><font color="#783f04"> </font></b>and you can see some of my work on the this site - I responded to stories by Gladys and Stephen. There is more work to come. I have teamed up with film-maker Peter Anderson to create a filmpoem based on Gladys's story. This will go live in September. </div><div><br /></div><div>Poetry readings there have been a-plenty. They're all on Zoom now, which has the advantage of allowing people from other countries to attend. I have attended book launches and lectures as well and am buying more books than ever now that I'm not spending anything on travel. It isn't all doom and gloom. It's been great to link with poets in Bonn again and again, and fabulous to hear readings from across the pond and as far away as Singapore. I hope these relationships and opportunities remain for a very long time.</div><div><br /></div><div>For my own part, I was made runner-up in the Poetry Society's <b><a href="https://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/poems/waging-peace/"><font color="#783f04">Artlyst Art to Poetry Award </font></a></b>and read to a fairly large audience this week. I also received the news that I'd won second place in the <b><a href="https://poetrylondon.co.uk/competition/"><font color="#783f04">Poetry London Prize</font></a></b>. I shall spend the money on buying more writing time.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/24U00WKdhHE" width="320" youtube-src-id="24U00WKdhHE"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, an interesting year so far. But oh, the loss of live theatre and music, and the inescapable fact that the world's poorest continue to suffer most. If there is one thing this pandemic has shown us more clearly than anything else, it's the divide between rich and poor. Add to this the legacy of colonialism and the hard edge of white supremacy, and the world seems damaged almost beyond repair. Our ecosystem is collapsing too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think back to those five and a half weeks in a small Oxfordshire primary school and wonder what future the world's children have inherited. Many young people are very, very angry. Many more people are exhausted and terrified. We have a responsibility to get ourselves out of this mess. I hope we haven't left it too late. I think we should be listening to young people more. And we certainly should be listening to the people we have systematically kept down.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQjpGcvhXqJDE5t257u7Q73FfrgJbrhDU7AGDA8UjnlJUZ7uVFruFuZWLXwvaFRa6XJT7ZZE3QQgLrylzZtO1VlVGT97yh6GC3MZfCExYyAl2p1xMpF0r6Ea006vFtJoN6vDOCLiVLYM/s2048/BLM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQjpGcvhXqJDE5t257u7Q73FfrgJbrhDU7AGDA8UjnlJUZ7uVFruFuZWLXwvaFRa6XJT7ZZE3QQgLrylzZtO1VlVGT97yh6GC3MZfCExYyAl2p1xMpF0r6Ea006vFtJoN6vDOCLiVLYM/s640/BLM.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-39330296634950436952020-01-21T13:33:00.000-08:002020-01-21T13:35:05.249-08:00One day I'll swim the channel...but not here, I'm afraid<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7IKSmmRkthavv074psoPjRWEaZIDzOKj4_S-qeKMzM25iYzroxssOeYLSOzNSnfDEK4FCzRCN2SM8lHKkpcHv7gVKX8oYb8IduQJvxf9ctR1WchaeTcvuYu60poQHvKi2OFVBB0lPF8/s1600/download+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7IKSmmRkthavv074psoPjRWEaZIDzOKj4_S-qeKMzM25iYzroxssOeYLSOzNSnfDEK4FCzRCN2SM8lHKkpcHv7gVKX8oYb8IduQJvxf9ctR1WchaeTcvuYu60poQHvKi2OFVBB0lPF8/s320/download+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">About forty
years ago I taught myself to swim in Bacup baths. Since then, I’ve swum on a
fairly regular basis in pools all over Greater Manchester and Lancashire, London,
Devon, Cornwall and anywhere else I’ve happened to be living, working and holidaying.<br />So
many pools, some old, some new, some quirky, some like glass cathedrals, but
always the same swimmers: beginners, improvers, dynamic torpedoes, and people
who simply want to claim a bit of quiet for themselves – all ploughing up and
down, up and down. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV601BOC_os9_fMWj0XeRHqb8m4NHoglEa2hzFDmNEWGMWzXbn12nAbaIHCo92MUa0BwtpXvxcPsczD7Sb8VfIc8hfQo91OZJYwZKypaZRl2dvzvZLgQLhyphenhypheniywe-r23jFQWWLlW_9oB4/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="289" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV601BOC_os9_fMWj0XeRHqb8m4NHoglEa2hzFDmNEWGMWzXbn12nAbaIHCo92MUa0BwtpXvxcPsczD7Sb8VfIc8hfQo91OZJYwZKypaZRl2dvzvZLgQLhyphenhypheniywe-r23jFQWWLlW_9oB4/s200/download.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I moved to Witney in Oxfordshire, one of the first things I did was join Windrush Leisure Centre. Swimming after work is calming and strengthening. I was entering my 50s and keen
to maintain good health. They do laid-back evening sessions which are quiet and focused. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSd4cqmTOf9tjkGWEhKA5Jn4qVqEaK4L3lgpphw-t7ku7N6P0ny0zCP_YhQTaODVB5WDM6wOw5klCJxYn5RfiWOu_dU8__CR3iaeFpl3fMTvEQ4cU8u1d_bcSEoxm66FcdlPdLpqIbRrA/s1600/dsc03766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSd4cqmTOf9tjkGWEhKA5Jn4qVqEaK4L3lgpphw-t7ku7N6P0ny0zCP_YhQTaODVB5WDM6wOw5klCJxYn5RfiWOu_dU8__CR3iaeFpl3fMTvEQ4cU8u1d_bcSEoxm66FcdlPdLpqIbRrA/s320/dsc03766.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I remember meeting a woman who was swimming the channel. "How many lengths is that?" I asked. "1,416." She said it had changed her whole lifestyle. She felt better than she'd felt in years. Another woman I met was swimming right up until the week before she gave birth. Her labour was virtually painless and only lasted a couple of hours. I decided there and then I'd do the Channel challenge, but then someone high up decided we would swim in
rectangles from now on. I checked out the other local pools. Everyone was still swimming up
and down. Only Witney was banning lengths. Bizarre, but I had no reason to think that swimming wouldn't continue to be an invigorating and inspiring part of my weekly routine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iFhD0VsELibpwAp4RjqPef_U09D78WAIlNWCUl0H_i3V2Cd0cVTDKNyWdci8xljKuocM8Adv-FofhSTMHIYYOb6HCz0TaihNaqkWyJx1yAIsIyIFWiWl0jYE-dL0OrZg7av72mnqONs/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iFhD0VsELibpwAp4RjqPef_U09D78WAIlNWCUl0H_i3V2Cd0cVTDKNyWdci8xljKuocM8Adv-FofhSTMHIYYOb6HCz0TaihNaqkWyJx1yAIsIyIFWiWl0jYE-dL0OrZg7av72mnqONs/s320/images.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The thing
I’ve noticed with pools that have one or two basic rules is this: people
don’t dive bomb and run along the sides or attempt to plunge head-first into
shallow water; they get on with what they've come to do and hardly anyone comes to any harm. Swimmers are generally a rather friendly polite lot and altercations are very rare. We manage to glide past each other without mishap and try to give way to less confident people as well as steer clear of superheroes aiming to complete mega-lengths in record time.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At Witney, however, there are <i>lots</i> of rules. One lane is
fast and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clockwise, one is medium and counterclockwise,
another is slow and clockwise, and the larger bit is for general use and goes counterclockwise, so you have to decide if you’re fast, medium or slow or whether you belong to some other category like</span> floaters,
couples engaging in foreplay or people who want to have a pleasant chat in the shallow end. There
are also a handful of swimmers who are Very Committed to the Rectangle and this is a category completely unique to Witney.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweb7JeDRwZjN2d_9M0Si-37rnkSUF1sAHF0WdD2S2XjcTO1bcVadhveSgWgFJvOB5cwznTs5ZiAOnam5hEfZc6TyCEtTSJLyydDfWgwu7lQUNwmm6mcclHTjN9RRQ02Jbm2_WzyQPbVk/s1600/33771506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweb7JeDRwZjN2d_9M0Si-37rnkSUF1sAHF0WdD2S2XjcTO1bcVadhveSgWgFJvOB5cwznTs5ZiAOnam5hEfZc6TyCEtTSJLyydDfWgwu7lQUNwmm6mcclHTjN9RRQ02Jbm2_WzyQPbVk/s320/33771506.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now, I’m
not fast, and I doubt very much if I’m medium, so I dived into the deep end and began swimming in the slow lane in a clockwise fashion,
which is impossible, given it’s only a lane’s width. I discovered this when
someone reprimanded me for bumping into him whilst doing backstroke. "By the way," he said. "Shouldn’t you be in the medium lane?" I apologised and swam under the
ropes to the next lane, but of course, I forgot which direction I was supposed
to be going in and got told off again. <o:p></o:p></span>"By the way," the next person said. "Shouldn’t you be in the slow lane?" </div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The thing
with rules is the more you have, the more confused people get, and the more
confused people get, the angrier they are. I regularly get told off for being
at the wrong speed. Nobody knows what the official rectangle speed is supposed
to be, but most people have their own opinion. For the floaters it’s a nice bobbing along tempo; for the couple indulging in foreplay and the those
having a conversation in the shallow end, it’s zero knots per hour; as for
the rest of us, it seems that whatever
you do is wrong, unless you're the person who's doing it right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRtNVTA8-dV5-GqvgLPfIhYPhrEK3G5SEc35FQoE8C40GEr9T2aUSfOL9cMzYu_thdszncrOSiazeQXp7iXrAbP6Bl-9Haisxhc6X70W08P-isgsKzf7Yt_o_mdfP4hiKsne0kzsODmY/s1600/download+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRtNVTA8-dV5-GqvgLPfIhYPhrEK3G5SEc35FQoE8C40GEr9T2aUSfOL9cMzYu_thdszncrOSiazeQXp7iXrAbP6Bl-9Haisxhc6X70W08P-isgsKzf7Yt_o_mdfP4hiKsne0kzsODmY/s1600/download+%25285%2529.jpg" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve been
punched by a woman who thought I was too fast, had fingernails scraped along
my skin by people who wanted me out of their way because I was too slow, been
bashed by flailing arms and even barred from entering the shallow end. One morning a gang
of three stood legs apart and arms stretched out to prevent me getting any
further because I was doing lengths. “But there’s
no sign up today,” I said. The rules, you see, can be quite arbitrary. “But WE
swim in rectangles,” said one gang member. “We LIKE rectangles.” “No problem,” I said. “I like lengths and we’re allowed to do what we want
today.” I called the sleepy guard over. “She can do whatever she wants,” he
mumbled. So, I continued my lengths and the gang of three glared at me for the
remainder of the session and got some sly kicks in when he wasn't looking.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I should
mention that these are <i>adult </i>sessions. They can, on occasion, be utter bliss after a 12-hour
day. You turn up at 9 o’clock and, if you're one of only half a dozen people,
you really can just plough up and down for a whole hour at your own pace. 50 –
60 lengths before bedtime is the best de-stresser I know. Unless the
guard enforces the rectangle on you because one of the gang of three has just
turned up at 9:35. “It’s for safety,” he explains. “But we’re grown-ups and
there are only four of us. Why bother
heating up the middle of the pool if we’re only allowed to go round the outside?" He doesn't answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Witney surpassed itself last week. I turned up to discover a significantly reduced
general bit swimming counterclockwise. It was sad watching the floaters bobbing like gentle potatoes amongst the Very Committed to the Rectangle gang. The frottaging
couple was there, and the </span>conversationalists were in full swing, so there was barely room to turn a corner. However, the
slow lane was free so I took my chances and dived in. To my left were the mediums
and, next to them, the superheroes powering along nicely. Farthest away was
the reason for the sudden squishing up of the general bit: something that
appeared to be aquaprayer. That’s novel, I thought. There was a lot of
kneeling and standing and some walking about and an enthusiastic instructor
making prayer hands.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I got to
length 32 and was feeling stronger and stronger, having settled into good deep
diaphragmatic breathing when a man crashed into me. “Sorry,” we both said,
because we’re adults, then he politely informed me I was going the wrong way. I
turned around and blow me if they hadn’t exchanged the slow clockwise sign for
a medium counterclockwise. I wasn’t just going the wrong way, I was going the
wrong speed. I apologised again and swam under the rope and joined the floaters,
frottagers and chatterboxes. It was chaos, but worse was to come. The guard
suddenly decided to remove the ropes. Now we were all in it together and no one
knew whether they were supposed to be fast, medium, slow, praying, clockwise,
counterclockwise or what. The only people who seemed utterly unfazed were the
frottaging couple and the two potatoes floating slowly towards the exit.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-75852811060021252972019-07-10T07:57:00.000-07:002019-07-10T07:57:29.871-07:00Pensions and Passes and the Passion of Politics<br />
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This year I turned 65 and five months later can now claim my
pension and free bus pass (thank you successive Tory governments for making me
wait so long). </div>
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2019 also happens to include the financial year I found myself
working 50-60-hour weeks and three weekends out of four in an effort to make
what I earned in 2005. Not many organisations pay the Royal Society of Authors’
or the Poetry Society’s recommended fees. Not many, I suspect, can genuinely
afford to. But if a plumber or a builder needs to be called in, you can bet
that their asking price will be accepted. The UK has never valued the Arts in
the same way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Artists can't afford to live on fees that are pegged back to
what we were earning over 10 years ago. Despite this, we slog on, many of us
working well past our retirement ages. We do this because we're often
passionate about the work we do. You can seldom stop an artist producing their
own work anyway. We <i>need</i> to write, paint, compose, sing, dance etc. It's
like breathing to us. But our work with people often has a political charge, or
at least a moral impetus guiding it, and that is, in some ways, more like
collective breathing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It's generally recognised these days that participation in
the Arts has a profoundly positive effect on people’s wellbeing. Care homes,
hospitals and day centres, as well as schools and community organisations want
us to facilitate workshops in growing numbers, and because they're strapped for
cash (thank you again successive Tory governments) they take advantage of our
passion and commitment.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIVSF6XQKfr0ypsL26uYdIhIHCbLzT1nqwOEdcFXf_MzRKaZ8XDQNI4EEXcrwmPGKBTtN-jfiFyqczDri25w4vpVQQfjxAIHFWCrz7FfBfjvyTWwyv_HnkS4S4O0J-adGS_gmT0Eg6CM/s1600/wage-packet-and-peanuts_fa20043694+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIVSF6XQKfr0ypsL26uYdIhIHCbLzT1nqwOEdcFXf_MzRKaZ8XDQNI4EEXcrwmPGKBTtN-jfiFyqczDri25w4vpVQQfjxAIHFWCrz7FfBfjvyTWwyv_HnkS4S4O0J-adGS_gmT0Eg6CM/s1600/wage-packet-and-peanuts_fa20043694+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a>I’ve lost count of the requests I've had with a fee
offer that's the equivalent of what I was getting in 1995. Yes, you read that
figure correctly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously, would you
expect a plumber to work for what she or he was earning 24 years ago? I have friends
who are in their 70s working ridiculous hours. The government may be blithely
telling us that austerity is over – but over for whom?</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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To be honest, I don't want to fully retire. However, I would
like to look after my health a bit more. Thank you, <b><a href="https://www.freedomfromtorture.org/what-we-do"><span style="color: #990000;">Freedom from Torture</span></a></b>, for
inadvertently sparking the opportunity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As many of you know, I have been working with FfT clients in
Newcastle as well as initially in Middleborough. The poet <b><a href="https://templarpoetry.com/products/honshu-bees"><span style="color: #990000;">DorothyYamamoto</span></a></b><span style="color: #990000;">,</span> who is a member of Oxford Stanza II, is also a keen supporter and she
edited an anthology of poems to raise money for the charity. I’ve discovered supporters
in the village where I live, too. The circles widen and overlap like Venn
diagrams. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Enter an email into my Inbox telling me about an initiative
by Edinburgh FfT member <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/cycleagainsttorture"><span style="color: #990000;">Moira Dunworth</span></a></b> to cycle from Hastings to her hometown
to raise much needed funds. Moira is my age and retired and can do these
things. She also has political awareness and passion and guts and determination
in abundance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Can I offer my support? Great Dog on a bike! Can I? I must!
My other big passion is cycling. No way will my work schedule allow me to
volunteer for more than a local stage, but I can at least join Moira and
<b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/shelagh-king2"><span style="color: #990000;">Shelagh King</span></a></b> (also retired who has teamed up to do the whole 865 miles). <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before I can change my mind, I sign up, put the word out
amongst friends and colleagues for sponsorship, then set about earmarking dates
and times in my busy schedule for training.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the weeks go by and the £s start rolling in, the miles
accumulate on my speedo, and, as the miles accumulate and my fitness levels
improve, I find I'm spending less time in my office and more sunny summer evenings
whizzing past fields filled with bird song. The work still gets done. Somehow,
I've managed to compress more in less time. My head is clearer and the £s – my
wages – also begin to roll in following some stern reminders to agencies that
have mislaid my invoices, or simply mislaid the will to pay me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the day I achieve pensionable age and can apply for my
free bus pass, I have satisfactorily completed some 200 training miles and an
array of local hills, including the White Horse at Uffington, six funerals,
three baby namings, one wedding, eight writing workshops in Newcastle, six in
Norwich, numerous meetings and endless hours of preparation and planning, a
seven-day exchange visit to our sister poets in Bonn, manuscript readings,
translations and a handful of scrappy notes for poems that may or may not come
to anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The stage 5 ride from Oxford to Milton Keynes is a
doddle and deeply pleasurable and the company of the riders is warm and
generous. Our leader, Joanna, sets the perfect pace. Somehow, we arrive two
hours ahead of schedule, and disband in brilliant sunshine after team photos. I’ve
raised £564 – thank you, generous friends and colleagues – and the entire team,
including <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/violet-is-cycling"><span style="color: #990000;">Violet Hejazi </span></a></b>who has learnt to cycle in order to do an 85-mile
stretch, has raised nearly £12,000 to date, plus gift aid. I am painfully aware
that the funds really should be coming from central government for the vital
work that FfT does, but so should funds for a lot of charities. It’s the same
old story – the powers that be taking advantage of people’s passion and commitment,
our will to generally improve the lot of humanity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That evening I meet up with Moira and Shelagh again for an excellent
Turkish meal. “Bonne route,” I wish them as we hug and say our goodbyes
afterwards. “Work less,” says Moira. “Do good things better.” </div>
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Put that pension
to proper use, in other words.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-72093815721143181612019-05-31T15:51:00.000-07:002019-05-31T15:51:41.989-07:00Choosing the Open Space<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLILwZvO7MKRkrZIdxNem6oVMBgIytxzFUlEO2DEVakiMACSo-HjsIQeVWLWARXhn0nc0qz1s0eOs-i8QB4ZO0IfZc28BPwEpDi9NOikXKVc1fP2d3DL-6_FukQkGgmRLopmvqrJtVbg/s1600/Anno+Tubac-neu-w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="591" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLILwZvO7MKRkrZIdxNem6oVMBgIytxzFUlEO2DEVakiMACSo-HjsIQeVWLWARXhn0nc0qz1s0eOs-i8QB4ZO0IfZc28BPwEpDi9NOikXKVc1fP2d3DL-6_FukQkGgmRLopmvqrJtVbg/s400/Anno+Tubac-neu-w.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
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Not long now till Oxford Stanza II's return visit to Bonn. We have many exciting things planned, not least a reading at Anno Tubac and a mask making session with music and performance, as well as our usual workshops at the Arp Museum and plenty of opportunities for food and merriment.<br />
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Our theme for this visit is Toni Morrison's quote "I refuse the prison of I and choose the open space of we." Never have international links been so important.<br />
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The Creative Future workshops in Newcastle are coming to an end now and I shall miss working with everyone there, as well as miss the warmth and friendliness of the city itself. I keep saying I will treat myself to a leisurely visit there one day. Perhaps later in the year...<br />
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Creative Future workshops will begin in Norwich as from next month, and continue into July. Again, I shall be working with asylum seekers and chiefly younger people on this occasion. Where there are language difficulties, interpreters are often a help, but it is also true to say that when the desire to communicate is strong, the meeting ground of ideas is fertile with inventiveness. I have had conversations with people at bus stops when neither of us spoke a word of each other's language. One can always act out a verb and mime or draw a noun.<br />
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My last bit of news is a charity bike ride for Freedom From Torture. Some team members are doing the whole Hastings to Edinburgh trip. I'm afraid I only have time for the Oxford to Milton Keynes leg - a mere 40 miles. Do <a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/pat-winslow"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>sponsor me</b></span></a> - or sponsor any of the other team riders. One of them has only just learnt to ride a bike and she's doing 85 miles, I believe!<br />
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For those who don't know, Freedom From Torture is the only UK-based human rights organisation dedicated to the treatment and rehabilitation of torture survivors. Your donation could provide counselling, group therapy and ongoing support for them. It will help give someone hope and strength on their journey to recovery.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-50790788539171722392019-04-26T09:59:00.002-07:002019-04-26T10:00:53.170-07:00Two Events, Two Cities, and a Coat <br />
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An exciting week coming up. On Sunday, <b>The Coat of Two Colours </b>is being performed at the Royal College of Music. Oliver Vibrans, a talented composer who has worked in theatre and for radio, and I have revisited this work since its <span style="line-height: 107%;">premi</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">è</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">re </span>in Cambridge, and are looking forward to seeing it in a new setting. </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIBFajMggxbAsf1mZx0_fZENL4UC79Om2e38jsH33GKKgkeQmz4GlId9qwF_ntlqcfoWAVsHwR9Vq_I3jwJVBSynp28qNSgE8vg5AjhocttOzQGnqyyRoXIC0Zts0hcbSDvZUqXVyNI0/s1600/thecoat+of+two+colours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1600" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIBFajMggxbAsf1mZx0_fZENL4UC79Om2e38jsH33GKKgkeQmz4GlId9qwF_ntlqcfoWAVsHwR9Vq_I3jwJVBSynp28qNSgE8vg5AjhocttOzQGnqyyRoXIC0Zts0hcbSDvZUqXVyNI0/s320/thecoat+of+two+colours.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
The Coat explores what happens when two communities, who work side by side and hold everything in common, witness an event from entirely different perspectives. It is a tale for our times, it is a tale for all times, and its answer lies, perhaps, with the next generation.<br />
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Do come, if you are in London.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall</div>
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Sunday 28th April </div>
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5 pm</div>
<br />
The event is part of the Great Exhibitionists series and is free, but tickets are required.<span style="background-color: white;"> <a href="https://www.rcm.ac.uk/events/details/?id=1609351"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>Book here</b>.</span></a><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></span><br />
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For those of you who live further north, the other exciting occasion is <b>The Studio of Sanctuary Celebration Event at the Art House </b>in Wakefield on Thursday May 2nd. Don't forget to cast your votes in the election before attending, though! I shall be popping along to my local polling station before boarding the train for what promises to be a heart-warming occasion.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7UYHYMVaAUcKq4PuKw0thyQeWtz0XEaPBS9NdNQLstFC261BngQSSzzbqlZHIoPnkwHyMw8OMBIVGun91yDY5qoqYGEJXYa1sLQYbplhX2RlFUjADYwVnHXqBzY_PaPXJM5z-v1zC7c/s1600/WP_20180404_09_51_05_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7UYHYMVaAUcKq4PuKw0thyQeWtz0XEaPBS9NdNQLstFC261BngQSSzzbqlZHIoPnkwHyMw8OMBIVGun91yDY5qoqYGEJXYa1sLQYbplhX2RlFUjADYwVnHXqBzY_PaPXJM5z-v1zC7c/s320/WP_20180404_09_51_05_Pro.jpg" width="223" /></a>Studio of Sanctuary</div>
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The Art House</div>
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Drury Lane</div>
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Wakefield </div>
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WF1 2TE</div>
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Thursday May 2nd</div>
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5 - 7 pm</div>
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Refreshments and Music</div>
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Studio of Sanctuary Plaque unveiling</div>
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Readings and Prizes for the 2018 Writing Competition</div>
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And after that I'm in Bonn working with the renowned <b>Dada war alles gut </b>writers in June. But more about that in another post.</div>
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In the meantime, here are some links for you:</div>
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<b><a href="https://www.olivervibranscomposer.com/"><span style="color: #351c75;">Oliver Vibrans</span></a></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://the-arthouse.org.uk/exhibitions-events/"><span style="color: #351c75;">The Art House</span></a></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://wakefield.cityofsanctuary.org/news"><span style="color: #351c75;">Wakefield City of Sanctuary</span></a></b></div>
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Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-52668899407870794882019-03-28T15:05:00.001-07:002019-03-28T15:05:43.854-07:00Blossom, Creeping Doubt and Belly Buttons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The days are lengthening, the trees are fat with blossom and tiny leaves, the birds are singing me awake every morning and the sun has been shining for several consecutive days now.When you hear that your poem, along with five others, has been chosen by Ian Duhig to celebrate 40 years of the National Poetry Competition, you begin to wonder if things can't get any better. But they do. Wakefield, City of Sanctuary, recently hosted a poetry competition and it has also selected a poem of mine as the winner. So, yes, I admit it, I am grinning from ear to ear.<br />
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But it's funny how winning a competition or having your work published can affect you. Pleasure is, undeniably, the first emotion you feel. It's nice to be rewarded for your hard work. But then comes a strange sort of creeping doubt. Why didn't they choose someone else's poem? Surely there must have been some better than mine. And when you read the other poems, you really do wonder why yours and not theirs.<br />
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Having been a judge myself, I know how nerve-racking it is to choose a winner - even if there is one poem and one poem only that is shouting at you from the pile. It is impossible to be 100% objective. What about your mood that day? And the collection you were reading the night before? And your particular penchant for this and your dislike of that? Or your inability to understand what a certain poem is about? Some poems have to be read again and again before they start to grow on you and become firm favourites. Who am I to judge? That has always been the question I have wrestled with when placed in this position. If you are one of a panel of judges, you learn how contrary some decisions seem. One judge may change another judge's mind by an observation that shows up the other judge's oversight. And let's face it, not all nuances are perceived in the same way.<br />
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These are understandable reasons why some people despise competitions. The ultimate choice is always subjective, even if there is consensus. But does this mean that competitions are without value? The dilemma, of course, is something editors are faced with. Sooner or later a decision has to be made, otherwise there would be no poetry magazines or books and there would be no festival readings. And there would therefore be nothing to aspire to. This is where I have to come down on the side of competitions. Aside from the monetary gain - and let's face it - most poets are stony broke - there is one essential fact. Someone whose work you respect has chosen a piece of work on the basis that it is of a high standard. Now, we might disagree about what makes a good poem, but it's surprising how many winners have made it into my own personal list of favourites. Think about <i>your</i> favourite poets. Think about <i>why</i> you like some poems and not others. Think about the last poem you read that made you see the world anew or even differently. Someone chose that poem. Perhaps you did. You heard it read in a workshop and you said "I like that." You didn't say that about the others. You only said it about that one. Why?<br />
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I find myself in good company today - read the poems that <i>Poetry News</i> will be featuring - and rather than doubt, I find I am filled with a desire to be more rigorous, more accurate and honest, more attentive to language. If someone's imagination thrills me, then I have new questions to ask of my own ability to fling open doors and windows. Doubt is only useful when it leads to a desire to stretch and test boundaries. Navel gazing is just navel gazing, and unless you have a desperate need to make sense of belly buttons in a truly dynamic and startling way, you should resist it.<br />
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So, thank you, Ian Duhig. And thank you to the person or people of Wakefield - I am looking forward to meeting you all at the Art House on May 2nd. And finally, thank you to every poet who has fed my wonder and imagination and taught me to think more deeply about the world.<br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b><a href="https://poetrysociety.org.uk/membership/members-poems-2/">Poetry Society Members Poems in Poetry News</a></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b><a href="https://www.poetryarchive.org/poet/ian-duhig">Hear and read Ian Duhig</a></b></span><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span><br />
<b style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://poetrysociety.org.uk/">The Poetry Society</a></b><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b><a href="https://wakefield.cityofsanctuary.org/">Wakefield City of Sanctuary</a></b></span><br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-18845160173627204882019-02-08T13:10:00.001-08:002019-02-08T13:10:47.569-08:00Snow and Sanctuary and Some Serious Thinking<br />
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What plans have you got for 2019? Quite a few people have asked me this. We like to give shape to our lives, don't we? We like to have things to look forward to, especially when there are things we dread. I refuse to use the B word in this blog. The world is a mighty big place and the current fiasco will continue with or without our consent.</div>
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Let's talk about snow! What fun that was - for some of us, anyway. Bodmin Moor would't have been my chosen route knowing all that weather was rolling in. Sorry if I sound smug. But really, the only thing I'd get in a car for in that situation would be to do a funeral - and yes, I have on at least one occasion done that. Otherwise, this is where you'll find me. Skiving off, because we only have one life and it's important to live it well if you can.</div>
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There's something marvellously focusing about snow. Its ability to transform everything that's familiar is remarkable. Everything sounds different for a start. There is an absence of smell, which sharpens your sense of it. You suddenly become aware of that morning's soap on your hands when you take your gloves off to blow your nose. A passing muntjac has left its scent on a hedge. There. And now it's gone. Colour shocks. Red berries. A dog's pink tongue. And then there's that stinging sensation when a blizzard whips up and snatches at your face. Lovely, that feeling of being alive and alert to the fact.</div>
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And still the daffodils that came up on Christmas Eve persist. And still the crocuses and the snowdrops pierce the green that follows the thaw. Spring is not far away. The birdsong has already changed. There are pairs of dunnocks, house sparrows, blue tits and even robins in the garden. I spend hours looking at birds through my binoculars this time of year. </div>
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Here's another B word that fills me with joy. Bonn. I am looking forward to a return visit in June. The relationship between <i>Stanza II </i>and <i>Dada war alles gut </i>goes from strength to strength. We are still sharing our work and still translating and workshopping our poems. We have a joint reading planned for June 10th at Anno Tubac, which boasts Bonn's oldest cabaret stage. More news to follow in subsequent blogs, so watch this space.</div>
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Wakefield is a City of Sanctuary. It is proud to host asylum seekers. I shall be reading at their poetry competition celebratory event some time soon and it will give me much pleasure. I am also heartened and excited by the Afghan Women's Orchestra Project in Oxford. They will be performing with the Orchestra of St. John's at the Sheldonian on Sunday 17th March. Click <b><a href="http://www.venues.ox.ac.uk/event/afghan-womens-orchestra/"><span style="color: #660000;">here </span></a></b>for more information and to book a seat. And tell your friends. Better still, bring your friends.</div>
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Recently, I attended <i>Refugees’ Experience of Grieving the
Dead</i> - a seminar organised by the Death, Dying and Bereavement Group, Open
University and the Centre for Death and Society, University of Bath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It's important to move away from Eurocentric perspectives
now and then. I work
with refugees on and off throughout the year, so this seminar was enormously
useful. It was valuable on many levels, not least with regard to humanist
ethics.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The talks examined our human (micro) responses to the
(macro) machinery of global catastrophes like war, famine and political
oppression. How do people living in refugee camps bury their dead? How can they
honour/commemorate those who died in their homelands if they are displaced and
can't return there? If a relative has been disappeared or has drowned in the
Mediterranean, how can a person grieve? What, then, is the nature of that
grief? We considered people who were locked into a frozen state of bereavement and
how we might create rituals that offer some kind of solace or at least formal
recognition. There were some extraordinary accounts of human endeavour and
compassion - repatriation of bodies to Senegal, the task of identifying bodies
that had been washed up or rescued, opening up personal family graves to
accommodate strangers' loved ones who had died. There are many individuals doing hugely important work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bereavement is seldom considered by NGOs. Bereavement is
never considered by politicians/populations wishing to keep refugees away from
their borders. Big serious issues here - emotional, psychological, cultural,
religious, ethical...I shall be signing up to attend more of these seminars and
very likely their conference later this year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For those of you who are interested, here are some links:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #660000;"><a href="http://www.bath.ac.uk/cdas/"><span style="color: #660000;">Centre for Death and Society</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #660000;"><a href="http://www.bath.ac.uk/cdas/publications/"><span style="color: #660000;">Publications</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://www.bath.ac.uk/events/14th-international-conference-on-the-social-context-of-death-dying-and-disposal/"><span style="color: #660000;">International Conference on the Social Context of Death,Dying and Disposal</span></a><span style="color: #c00000;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-73900197208770472062018-11-21T03:14:00.003-08:002018-11-21T03:14:37.442-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Travels of St. Cecilia, gets its premi<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">è</span>re on 22nd November. As I said before, I'm coming out of retirement as an actor for this, so it's a one-off.<br />
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St. Cecilia is the patron saint of music and thereafter, any resemblance ends, because this cantata is a joyful and often totally bonkers romp celebrating Oxford's twinning relationships with Bonn, Grenoble, Leiden, Le<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ó</span>n, Perm and Wroc<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ł</span>aw. It's a deliberately jolly antidote to the horrors of Brexit and Fortress Britain.<br />
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Bring your friends. Bring your family. Bring a spirit of international friendship.<br />
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Speaking of which, I have no photos yet of the Peace Poetry event on Sunday 11th November at Beckley Village hall, but I can report that it was very well attended. An enormous amount of money was raised for both Peace Direct and Jalina Myhana, the poet who had come all the way from Florence only to be detained at Gatwick, fingerprinted, and deported to Milan, miles from where she and her British husband live. He was also denied entrance to this country. Fortress Britain gets uglier year on year. Eva Wal, our German poet, noticed a hostile environment at the airport as well. It is deeply depressing.<br />
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On the positive side, we had some marvellous poetry commemorating mothers - they are too often forgotten in remembrance events - written and read in both Arabic and English by Syrian poet Muradi Bakir. There was poetry from German and Austrian poets of the First World War, again, read in their original language and in translation. There were contemporary poems written in direct response to these, as well. German poet, Eva Wal, played a film she'd made with young people. It was a beautiful meditation on peace and time.<br />
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The whole event was deeply nourishing and I am proud that the perspective was determinedly international and forwards looking, as well as humble and reflective about our shared pasts.<br />
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Do have a look at Eva's blog to see what we got up to during the marvellous exchange between Bonn poets <i>Dada War Alles Gut </i>and Oxford's <i>Stanza II</i>. I still can't believe how much we managed to cram in.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Links for you:</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b><a href="https://jalina.co.uk/">Jalina Myhana</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="http://evawal.blogspot.com/">Eva Wal</a></span></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b><a href="https://www.peacedirect.org/">Peace Direct</a></b></span></div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-42400828940801476152018-10-10T06:54:00.000-07:002018-10-10T11:13:19.801-07:00Other Ways of Remembering, Twinning Celebrations and One Very Bonkers Reading<div class="c_3f43cyxc7 x_3f43ctats clearfix" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: -1px; zoom: 1;">
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">I tend to steer clear of events that have strong military associations. "Don't you care about the suffering and loss of life?" people ask. I do. Very much. I care enough not to support anything that promotes or glorifies war. It is not 'sweet and right' to die for your country. The truth is, it's painful and ugly and desperately lonely. It is also a terrible, terrible waste. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">I would rather we concentrated our efforts on reducing the risk of war. Our troops should be withdrawn from overseas unless they are being used to help emergency efforts following international disasters. It gave me me no joy to see a 12 year old boy lose 16 members of his family and both his arms in a bombing raid. It gave me no joy to witness the hypocrisy of the country that bombed him inviting him to receive free treatment for his extensive burns and offering him citizenship and a home, then cutting his access to care once he'd turned 18.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">The recent photo of a group of young recruits with the fascist Tommy Robinson has deepened my anxiety. The military seeks to distance itself from racism and far-right groups, but I'm afraid that doesn't hold much water with me. I remember only too well what I witnessed in Northern Ireland, both when I lived there and on subsequent visits - soldiers lying on their bellies </span></div>
<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">with loaded weapons trained on the Catholic players </span><span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">of a Sunday afternoon game of football, soldiers entering a bus going up the Falls Road and snapping their fingers underneath young Catholic lads' noses to try and get them to react so they could haul them off and arrest them, searchlights from military helicopters shining in through our windows all night when we were trying to sleep. Then there was the young Bay City Rollers fan who was lifted and interrogated at Castlereagh - the soldiers put a twin bar electric fire behind his legs to make him talk. Several decades on, not a lot has changed. Abu Ghraib, Basra, Helmand are names that are synonymous with torture and murder. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">We know that bullying is rife in the army. My nephew was in the US army for a while and he wrote at great length about how new recruits were broken down and then rebuilt. This is how you form an army. You dehumanise them. It is no accident that some of the people I have worked with who went on to develop huge problems with violence and substance abuse date their falling apart from their army days. Some of the things my nephew told me were tantamount to brainwashing. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif;">My father fought in Vietnam and Korea. I grew up with Vietnam on my TV and in the papers every day. Many of those images still haunt me. My father was very proud to have had a man's hands chopped off. He actually boasted about that. So don't ask me why I wear the white poppy instead of the traditional red one. Don't ask me why I will not stand side by side with military personnel on Remembrance Day. I have other ways of remembering - and I insist on thinking about the future.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Also forthcoming is the celebration of Oxford's twinning with six cities - Bonn, Grenoble, Leon, Lieden, Perm and Wroclaw. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The wonderful Arne Richards has curated and composed some excellent music for the cantata and several community choirs will be performing alongside Oxford Concert Party that evening. As for the text of the cantata, be warned - it's full of eccentric curiosities. I should know.</span><span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> I wrote it. Here's one of them in the picture above. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Note, too, that I will be making a comeback from my acting career (last seen in 1987) with the inimitable Rip Bulkley of Back Room Poets. Don't miss it. This is a one-off. </span><span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The date for your diaries is Thursday 22nd November and the performance will be at Oxford Town Hall. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">In the meantime, if someone can help me with my pronunciation of Wroclaw, I would be very grateful.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjXTdAa0qpiT_Q34OOoIk7gN6DcP95f_8coB6irrGFg5ebTP4h0KIw3J4QQI08dQ6KvmCLeUgCSgGnw7BU0D9r61AVC2_a781-mmZdbveK3k1lrUeuAVrhwbMwA-IIHzwS8oBt5QGE3k/s1600/DSC_5397.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="618" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjXTdAa0qpiT_Q34OOoIk7gN6DcP95f_8coB6irrGFg5ebTP4h0KIw3J4QQI08dQ6KvmCLeUgCSgGnw7BU0D9r61AVC2_a781-mmZdbveK3k1lrUeuAVrhwbMwA-IIHzwS8oBt5QGE3k/s320/DSC_5397.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I am delighted to have been placed 3rd in the To Hull and Back Short Story Competition. This is a marvellously bonkers competition and, as the writer of many bonkers' stories, it's a rare and welcome opportunity to find a wee bit of a platform.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I'll be reading in Bristol on Saturday 8th December at the Left Bank, 128 Cheltenham Rd, BS6 5RW at 6.30pm. Do come and join us if you're in the area.</span><br />
<br style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "Quattrocento Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" />
<span style="color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "quattrocento sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">And if you're wondering about the picture above - it isn't a scene from Dr. Who, but a snapshot of the city's residents who painted themselves blue for Spencer Tunick's installation 'Sea of Hull'. There is no nakedness in my short story, however, unless you count the dead pig.</span></div>
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Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-85225725930751998132018-07-12T09:38:00.003-07:002018-07-12T09:38:42.203-07:00Sun, Song and Seriously Good Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The terrors unfolding on the world stage at the moment and football fever aside, this summer has felt like something of an everlasting daydream. It is deeply pleasurable to wake up to blue skies every morning and to step out into heat and brilliant sunshine. I don't care that the grass has turned brown and that the leaves are sweeping off the trees like so many bits of crispy paper. I welcome the laundry fading as it's hung out to dry. I love the fact that the laundry barely takes an hour some days. Soon, the evenings will be filled with golden dust as the wheat is gathered in and it won't matter how many times I wipe the window sills and little piles of stones and shells I've gathered over the years, the dust will settle again and again.<br />
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I resent being indoors when it's this sunny and warm. I'd rather not work. I prefer to to be out on my bike or swimming somewhere. And yet I wouldn't have sacrificed a single moment behind bars watching a dozen or so prisoners and staff singing the other evening. Arne Richards and Isabel Knowland of <b><a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/Prisons"><span style="color: orange;">Oxford Concert Party</span></a></b> have been working with HMP Grendon's choir for nine weeks. The performance was attended by a number of men from the wings, officers, chaplains and the governor. It was an absolute joy to see everyone shiny eyed and grinning as their voices filled the room.<br />
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Grendon is, I believe, the UK's only therapeutic prison. We have a revolving door system, unfortunately. The focus is far too much on dehumanisation and not enough on rehabilitation. Having worked in High Security for a number of years, I can categorically state that the vast majority of offenders have begun life as victims. They have grown up under very challenging circumstances. It takes a lot of unpicking and hard work before an offender can begin to turn his/her life around. We would do well to learn from the <b><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-37904263"><span style="color: orange;">Dutch model</span></a></b><span style="color: #f6b26b;">,</span> I believe and certainly, we need more Grendons. See <b><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/feb/27/utopian-thinking-prisons-broken-england-wales-hmp-grendon"><span style="color: orange;">Eric Allison's article</span></a><span style="color: orange;">.</span></b><br />
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Another highlight was a fascinating day at Pembroke College, Oxford where I was running a poetry workshop for a group of 15 - 18 years old as part of the <b><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/"><span style="color: orange;">Orwell Youth Prize Celebration Day</span></a></b><span style="color: magenta;">.</span> There were some really rigorous contributions and observations and the debate in the afternoon was great fun. Do explore the links to the writers who won awards. Their work was fantastic. These are, I believe, names we will see again at some future date.<br />
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<em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;"><strong style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">Winners</strong></em></div>
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<strong style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">Junior Prize</strong></div>
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<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/?page_id=16121&preview=true" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Manal Ali, ‘Be Glad It’s Not On Your Forehead’</a></li>
<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/joe-atkinson/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Joe Atkinson, ‘The Truths We Want to Hear’</a></li>
<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/niamh-weir/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Niamh Weir, ‘Colony Collapse Disorder’</a></li>
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<strong style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">Senior Prize</strong></div>
<ul style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: GillSansNova, Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.6; list-style-position: outside; margin: 0px 0px 1rem 1.25rem; padding: 0px;">
<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/molly-elliott/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Molly Elliott, ‘Mind the Gap’</a></li>
<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/promise-thunder-scarlett-pygott/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Scarlett Pygott, ‘The Promise of Thunder’</a></li>
<li style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 1.1875rem; line-height: 27.93px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/abouttheyouthprize/previous-winners-youth/2018-winners/cynical-ammarah-yasin/" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #d2232a; cursor: pointer; line-height: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;">Ammarah Yasin, ‘Be Cynical’</a></li>
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Tomorrow I meet in Brighton with a panel of judges to choose the winners of this year's <b><a href="https://literary.creativefuture.org.uk/"><span style="color: orange;">Creative Future Literary Awards</span></a></b><span style="color: magenta;">.</span> It's always hotly contested because there is so much to commend. I think I have two outright platinum winners chosen but, as is often the way, other panel members might think differently. The discussions can get quite passionate and, because we each bring our own sensibilities and experience to the table, we find ourselves considering things in new and unexpected ways. This is why I prefer panel judging to the single-handed variety which always feels slightly arbitrary.</div>
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And after that? Well, it's in Brighton. What else would you do on a bright sunny day by the sea?</div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-68521375139832557122018-06-27T10:05:00.000-07:002018-06-27T10:05:05.164-07:00Cross Country - an open letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Cross Country,<br />
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These are my knees.<br />
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As you can see, my left knee, which is on your right, is not
a happy bunny. This is why I always book seats on trains.<br />
<br />
I booked a seat on the 15:13 Oxford to Newcastle train scheduled
to run on 25<sup>th</sup> June 2018. I was allocated seat D54A (booking
reference 7GRCHKTF). <br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bear with me now, because this is a long story.</div>
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The train came in over 50 minutes late, which couldn’t be
helped, owing to a tragic incident near Winchester. A lot of trains were
running behind schedule because of the incident and, understandably, they were
becoming very crowded as people swapped one service for another in an attempt
to reach their destinations in reasonable time. However, I found my seat had
been allocated to someone else travelling from Oxford to Banbury. Moreover, it
had also been allocated later to another person travelling from Birmingham New Street
to Doncaster. Thankfully, a person travelling to Derby chose not to use their
allocated seat, so I didn’t have to stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Why was my booking not honoured?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Are booking references and allocations made over the phone
never to be trusted?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I would be grateful if someone could answer both these questions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bear with me, please. This story has some way to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My return journey from Newcastle to Oxford was due to be the
17:32 on 26<sup>th</sup> June (seat booking D48A - booking reference 7GRCHKTF).
This train was cancelled owing to an
incident that was never explained to me – though someone said there was a
rumour of pigeons on the overhead line, which I thought was a rather
interesting variation of ‘leaves on the line’ and ‘wrong kind of snow’, but
that’s neither here nor there. I was instructed to take the next available
train to Birmingham New Street which was the 17:41. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Still with me? Good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, several other trains had been cancelled running between
several cities and the trains that were running were beginning to fill up. I
was warned that the 17:41 would be packed and I should be prepared to stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4Hg8hyphenhyphenA9k6JMTnZsVPxX9-7TtKmczBpemFBC_MPdC2xZ44n-_1ZbRZChZvTmiuF-MS5NJBO4RTS3ZRdrNJ6p1nUmvUoWk9h8JP5W6v0OKqsnVvI3Q9gXwCWQ_uRzQIsuss1P9HzI_gQ/s1600/pat%2527s+knee+for+compensation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4Hg8hyphenhyphenA9k6JMTnZsVPxX9-7TtKmczBpemFBC_MPdC2xZ44n-_1ZbRZChZvTmiuF-MS5NJBO4RTS3ZRdrNJ6p1nUmvUoWk9h8JP5W6v0OKqsnVvI3Q9gXwCWQ_uRzQIsuss1P9HzI_gQ/s200/pat%2527s+knee+for+compensation.jpg" width="200" /></a>Here are my knees again. I know. Not a pretty sight. </div>
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Well, the 17:41 duly arrived and it was mercifully on time,
but it rather resembled the London Underground in rush hour. </div>
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Standing for a few
stops is quite manageable on the Underground, especially as you’re usually being
propped up by all the other squeezed in passengers. But three
and a half hours and my knee would have been in agony. I therefore decided to
wait for the next Birmingham train. <o:p></o:p>The 18:35 was the next one. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGHACdV6mPJmdA-dw52_GTMn5LJ3p1VQUte99BS956Ec9P0wSnqd7ltasJejGEQvQeAiWnR8NNK01AGygx7gezv39GOBQsPofAZXH3iuZUMdrPe3YRo98-Lzt4_quE4cSjyDDHd_sQz4/s1600/train+times.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1109" data-original-width="1033" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGHACdV6mPJmdA-dw52_GTMn5LJ3p1VQUte99BS956Ec9P0wSnqd7ltasJejGEQvQeAiWnR8NNK01AGygx7gezv39GOBQsPofAZXH3iuZUMdrPe3YRo98-Lzt4_quE4cSjyDDHd_sQz4/s320/train+times.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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Goodness, only three out of eight trains running on time!</div>
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Still with me? Good, because this next bit is quite complicated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, the 18:40 to Dundee pulled in and – I assure you, I am
not making this up – all the passengers for Dundee were told to get off and
find seats in the very back of the train and those of us waiting to go to
Birmingham were told to get on the front of the Dundee train. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It never ceases to amaze me how trusting the British public
is and I expect that probably accounts for the dire political mess we’re in at
the moment but, get off they did and get on we did and lo, the hand of some
unseen god spilt the train asunder and the back end went off to Scotland and the
front departed at 18:57 precisely for Birmingham New Street.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was a glorious sunset on the way and lots of splendid bucolic
scenery as I finally ate my sandwiches and drank a small can of pale ale. What joy to live in England! There was just the small matter of a
train connection to Oxford now. The 18:40 which had somehow mysteriously become
the 18:35, except that it left at 18:57 was due to get in with about two or
three minutes to spare for the 22:04 which was, I’d been told, my Very Last Train to Oxford. The next one would be the 05:02 the following morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4Hg8hyphenhyphenA9k6JMTnZsVPxX9-7TtKmczBpemFBC_MPdC2xZ44n-_1ZbRZChZvTmiuF-MS5NJBO4RTS3ZRdrNJ6p1nUmvUoWk9h8JP5W6v0OKqsnVvI3Q9gXwCWQ_uRzQIsuss1P9HzI_gQ/s1600/pat%2527s+knee+for+compensation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4Hg8hyphenhyphenA9k6JMTnZsVPxX9-7TtKmczBpemFBC_MPdC2xZ44n-_1ZbRZChZvTmiuF-MS5NJBO4RTS3ZRdrNJ6p1nUmvUoWk9h8JP5W6v0OKqsnVvI3Q9gXwCWQ_uRzQIsuss1P9HzI_gQ/s200/pat%2527s+knee+for+compensation.jpg" width="200" /></a>Here are my knees again. I'm sorry if you're getting tired of looking at them, but really, you want to try living with them. I’m afraid I haven’t got a selfie of me running from platform
2 to platform 5a…but you can probably imagine what I must have looked like
lolloping along with my rucksack and a bottle of water slopping everywhere.</div>
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I got on the 22:04 and found myself sitting next to someone
who’d boarded the 17:41 (remember the London Underground train?). It was she
who told me about the pigeon on the overhead cable. It turned out that she was
a scientist, so we had quite an interesting conversation about the composition
of rails used in hot countries like India and why the rails at Waterloo were
beginning to buckle and it hadn’t even got to 30°. I tell you, there was quite a lot
to laugh about, especially as she’d got the earlier train and was no quicker
getting to Oxford than I was. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wl4secKIiQ5D-UqFlmQZDoykqre-iuFsh9lnNd9AiSszuwLXVhNFCdsZKizKsPpCxJpDtc0WtNe0w_zhRwzDxomUQatIQmHck0lTDBRXrFGPKvEEwi1lnxMT6gop2vTHDnmm53__tiU/s1600/Class-220-%25284%2529-M.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wl4secKIiQ5D-UqFlmQZDoykqre-iuFsh9lnNd9AiSszuwLXVhNFCdsZKizKsPpCxJpDtc0WtNe0w_zhRwzDxomUQatIQmHck0lTDBRXrFGPKvEEwi1lnxMT6gop2vTHDnmm53__tiU/s320/Class-220-%25284%2529-M.jpg" width="320" /></a>I must apologise here, because I didn’t take a picture of the man
who had to change out of his hot and sweaty clothes into some fresh clean ones in
between two carriages because the toilet wasn’t working. To be frank, I was
rather taken with his crisp white shirt and charming manners. Aren’t the
English good at apologising? He was concerned that he might upset passengers. I
can’t say that anybody minded. There was, however, a bit of a mad dash to the
toilets at Oxford station.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, I did get to Oxford, but of course I missed the final train
of my journey which was the 22:56 to Charlbury, so I had to fork out £4.20 for
an all-night bus (on time and enough seats for everyone) and then a further £11
for a taxi to take me home and to my bed. I got in at ten past twelve in the
morning, which wasn’t bad considering I had to be up for work first thing the
next morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s a picture of my tickets and the bus and taxi receipts:<o:p></o:p></div>
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And a pigeon:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfd8nBhcYBV3CKYC5A-G4vGp-di2LCaPZL5oH1cNaRfRhxtuG8Rf2qKd14ztX4mq3xIPGyuG72rJ24v7MOlw_UeiPTdkOhbOEWNfenxefcnIRF87sc2F6lUEioyYn5JT6x5vYCAury90/s1600/pigeon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfd8nBhcYBV3CKYC5A-G4vGp-di2LCaPZL5oH1cNaRfRhxtuG8Rf2qKd14ztX4mq3xIPGyuG72rJ24v7MOlw_UeiPTdkOhbOEWNfenxefcnIRF87sc2F6lUEioyYn5JT6x5vYCAury90/s320/pigeon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yours sincerely,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Pat Winslow</div>
<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-82868591246119808722018-06-21T15:11:00.000-07:002018-06-21T15:49:35.704-07:00Looking Back, Looking ForwardI wouldn't call today Midsummer - summer started officially yesterday - but it does feel like mid-year.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpoKDbw-64tqvHczFoFbW39LBLCy7BUJe1Gt92ZmpkTGEIH1EY92ooPgZhfwa8qRsUqmYmvSFBEbAEXB93kQZn3dvEGdU51zzTM7pSJy5YE004EHSsTbgeixRZu42NspFDLp7laiBcyA/s1600/boy8.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpoKDbw-64tqvHczFoFbW39LBLCy7BUJe1Gt92ZmpkTGEIH1EY92ooPgZhfwa8qRsUqmYmvSFBEbAEXB93kQZn3dvEGdU51zzTM7pSJy5YE004EHSsTbgeixRZu42NspFDLp7laiBcyA/s320/boy8.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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What do we have to show for it? Children separated from their parents and locked in cages, protesters and medical personnel gunned down on a putative border, more land grabs, more money grabs, more migrations and drownings. </div>
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Remember Alan Kurdi? Where is the world's compassion now after all those Facebook hits? </div>
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It was World Refugee Day yesterday. <b><a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/world-refugee-day-2018-un-conflict-war-famine-syria-myanmar-displaced-stateless-people-a8407401.html"><span style="color: #b45f06;">The Independent </span></a></b>newspaper tells us that 2.9 million people became asylum seekers in 2017. That figure is the biggest single-year rise in the history of the UN refugee agency. And yet we are still closing our doors. And our minds. And our hearts. </div>
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I say our, but of course, not everyone feels the same. I have absolutely no doubt that the vast majority of people would try to pull someone back from stepping out into the path of an oncoming car. Generally speaking, people don't like to see another human being being injured. Why, then, do we refuse to admit people fleeing from the most unbearable situations? How do we let acts of brutality and inhumanity happen in our name?</div>
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This was going to be a post about wonderful poetry readings - and there have been, believe me, with some very committed poets and an equally vociferous and active audience: <i><b><a href="http://onslaughtpress.com/product/poems-for-grenfell-tower-pre-ordernow/"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Poems for Grenfell</span></a></b></i> in Oxford, <a href="http://www.greyhenpress.com/books/"><i><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">Songs for the Unsung</span></b></i> </a>in Kenilworth last night and a welcome and generous return to Derby Poetry Society. Equally nourishing are the <b><a href="https://literary.creativefuture.org.uk/writing-workshops/"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Creative Future</span></a> </b>workshops up and down the country with writers who are under-represented, writers who have much to say and say it well. </div>
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It has been pure joy for me to work with speakers of different languages. My ears have grown old and fluffy of late. They've been needing a good pulling. We lose our bearings if we belong to ourselves too much. That's the trouble with the world. We seem to be adopting a siege mentality. Feeling under siege makes us prone to rumour and speculation. No wonder fake news is flourishing. If we'd only look around us and see what's really there. If we'd only speak to each other and find out what other lives are really like, then we'd realise how much nonsense we're being fed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzMDgApCVaYnFmVhifc415munziQJSSH7-5g12Zl19MckX9oF62BCE6G5nGlGfEZn-Z9-0zrAv6_fm92ZigMT8P8y_PEm9G6u6gPyza0mTcscdywB_kmoDndVR_H_EY0-ePjCiMNs4sc/s1600/3000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1140" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzMDgApCVaYnFmVhifc415munziQJSSH7-5g12Zl19MckX9oF62BCE6G5nGlGfEZn-Z9-0zrAv6_fm92ZigMT8P8y_PEm9G6u6gPyza0mTcscdywB_kmoDndVR_H_EY0-ePjCiMNs4sc/s320/3000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am heartened by young activists and I am sorry that so many feel let down by my generation too. Many young people feel disenfranchised. </div>
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I have written on these pages before about the hope young people inspire in me - Syrian refugees, most recently, and children in some of the schools I've been working with.</div>
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Next week I shall be enjoying the privilege of meeting young people from up and down the country at the <span style="color: #b45f06;"><b><a href="https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-youth-prize/2018-youth-prize/celebration-day/"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Orwell Youth Prize Celebration Day</span></a></b> </span>at Pembroke College. It promises to be a very full and eventful day.</div>
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Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-43170349632582501972018-04-30T13:23:00.000-07:002018-04-30T13:23:41.289-07:00Readings and Workshops Galore!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhI93G_efDcCRdopAYDi4b9voVAT1HnZNc_zM97VrJUAhqcEGi419v0EZgnWF6P8d8ExMIsWOXyOjeWT2DiY8jID6WG6Lr-UBEGE8NtFZVNhCOz6CF5OeQ88SG6WQNmXYoukXBAqeOlA/s1600/Oxford+P4GT+poster-page-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1132" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhI93G_efDcCRdopAYDi4b9voVAT1HnZNc_zM97VrJUAhqcEGi419v0EZgnWF6P8d8ExMIsWOXyOjeWT2DiY8jID6WG6Lr-UBEGE8NtFZVNhCOz6CF5OeQ88SG6WQNmXYoukXBAqeOlA/s640/Oxford+P4GT+poster-page-001.jpg" width="451" /></a></div>
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Some great events coming up. 'Poems for Grenfell Tower' has been published now and there are national readings taking place over the next couple of months. If you scroll down to my previous blog, you'll find the venues and dates listed, as well as where to buy the book. But if you're in Oxford this Friday, do come along to the Cape of Good Hope. It's a great line-up and the event is free. Please make a donation to the Grenfell Foundation if you can. People are still struggling and many are still homeless. You can, of course, buy your copy of the book at the venue. There's an open mic, too, so if you fancy reading something, put your name down on the list when you arrive.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKY952A5q0vejMrT6kaLODAqcpD4LyKqCMHTJ4w9_RmOb23SQ4Mk3dxKQmM2l8t80Wk23HO56QzIttVSkI7aJLxEwmVUJT83wPuwMuetmryMVVXiRiw7yvnwBfjHEtNVmp6pJ5lHg9CU4/s1600/songs+for+the+unsung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="180" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKY952A5q0vejMrT6kaLODAqcpD4LyKqCMHTJ4w9_RmOb23SQ4Mk3dxKQmM2l8t80Wk23HO56QzIttVSkI7aJLxEwmVUJT83wPuwMuetmryMVVXiRiw7yvnwBfjHEtNVmp6pJ5lHg9CU4/s400/songs+for+the+unsung.jpg" width="256" /></a>Further ahead, I am reading at Derby Poetry Society on June 8th. This will be in Room 3 of the Friends Meeting House on St. Helen's Street, DE1 3GY. It starts at 7:30. You can phone Gina Clarke on 01773 825215 for more details. And even further ahead, I am reading from 'Songs for the Unsung' in Leamington Spa at Kenilworth Books on Wednesday 20th June. Again, the line-up is very good and I shall be selecting some of my favourite poems by other writers as well as my own.</div>
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The Creative Future Literary Awards writing workshops have got off to a tremendous start. There are waiting lists for the Newcastle and Brighton sessions, but still some places left for the Preston sessions. Workshops run from 10:00 - 12:00 and they are held at They Eat Culture's brand new premises - People's Production Lab, Guildhall Street, PR1 3NU. If you want to sign up, click <b><a href="https://literary.creativefuture.org.uk/writing-workshops/"><span style="color: #660000;">here</span></a></b> and this will take you straight to bookings and more information about the workshops.<br />
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I am also pleased to be part of 'Think Human' week at Oxford Brookes later next month. The poet and artist Jane Spiro is curating work from local writers and placing it alongside objects that have special meaning for us. More about that in my next blog. All I can say for now is that it looks very interesting indeed!Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-54564024180759778052018-04-19T12:02:00.001-07:002018-04-19T12:02:57.544-07:00Syrian Sisters, Synaesthesia and Stories Galore!Lots of exciting things happening this year. After the most intense and busy funeral period I have ever experienced, it is a great relief to be turning once again to arts work up and down the country.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgEs5mowI4NGx5IjZ4NYcLGgduA60eRtCYXLhxCeV5nC9VYGFnTfns-Sza2I8bQgHjiBrzwqZshs93dIcekvcRUtLXmrFL0s4iAN5uE-_D5GbDwwMOgYDMorEUv1qe5DvJYMx7chA95k/s1600/WP_20180404_09_51_05_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1116" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgEs5mowI4NGx5IjZ4NYcLGgduA60eRtCYXLhxCeV5nC9VYGFnTfns-Sza2I8bQgHjiBrzwqZshs93dIcekvcRUtLXmrFL0s4iAN5uE-_D5GbDwwMOgYDMorEUv1qe5DvJYMx7chA95k/s320/WP_20180404_09_51_05_Pro.jpg" width="223" /></a>What a fabulous two weeks I spent with Oxford Concert Party and Tony Lloyd working with Syrian Sisters at Rose Hill Community Centre in Oxford. Though it was more like running a play scheme than an arts project at times (we had tiny tots as well as juniors and teenagers) we got an incredible amount of work done.<br />
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For two weeks, we danced and sang, told stories, wrote poems, made scores of migratory birds which we stuck to the windows, and travellers' footprints from maps of the world which we stuck to a never-ending roll of card. The food the children's mums prepared for us all was fantastic, too. This was a nourishing project in every way.<br />
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What joy it was to discover a supreme storyteller amongst the children. She told us a new story every day and she told an amazing tale about a mouse and a lion on the last day when we held a showcase for the general public. Two of the women turned out to be excellent drummers, as well. There was no shortage of volunteer dancers once they struck up.<br />
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It's hard for me to imagine what their lives were like before they arrived in Oxfordshire. I have never experienced war first-hand, much less the total decimation of my country. Grief isn't just about mourning the dead, I am reminded. It's also about loss of one's home and that deep sense of belonging when your family has lived somewhere for generations. I hope we managed to contribute a sense of welcome in this chilly little corner of the world. I hope we managed to silence some of those terrors and deflect that grief for a little while.<br />
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We mustn't underestimate a human being's capacity for survival, of course. The Syrian Sisters are building a future. So are the children. And, I do believe, they are building this country's future too. Such generosity, warmth, courage and openness are necessary ingredients for a healthy society. When we come together in a true spirit of sharing, we can achieve so much.<br />
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I'm back with Creative Future, too. This means lots of travelling up and down the country - Preston, Newcastle and Brighton - working with writers who find themselves underrepresented for many reasons. Some people are new to writing and are trying it for the first time. Others have been writing for years are beginning to explore and experiment with new ideas and audiences. As always, I find I have something learn. It was really interesting listening to a discussion amongst ex-offenders about how a writer can inspire empathy in a reader.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2XtmfJimrTfDET_le413VoPrYPf8Qxi1kRh2FY9WaFI5byilskCIxSJecwt49orRaInI6lrN-RcGwC0X1U60iSFId6MB9NzYO5fT_0h_MYNSJxtcfX3wjgL-CJi7HuAqalvdbZ9LBKE/s1600/colours+symbolism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2XtmfJimrTfDET_le413VoPrYPf8Qxi1kRh2FY9WaFI5byilskCIxSJecwt49orRaInI6lrN-RcGwC0X1U60iSFId6MB9NzYO5fT_0h_MYNSJxtcfX3wjgL-CJi7HuAqalvdbZ9LBKE/s400/colours+symbolism.jpg" width="223" /></a>This series of workshops - there are six in total - explore synaesthesia, colour, music, translation, story-boarding and tone. Essentially, these are workshops that focus on how we communicate and interpret. Every act of writing is perhaps a form of translation. Even the way we read and intuit and finally comprehend something is an act of translation. Since we can never inhabit each others' heads, that is the nearest we can ever get. It all seems terribly imprecise, but there's something fizzy and spicy about the bits we fail to get. It's like stepping on the edge of a crack in the ground knowing you could fall into it. That's what reading and listening are for me. That's what learning a language is like. It's good to fall sometimes. It's good to take risks.<br />
<br />
After an interval of two years, I'm doing a storytelling session at the Corn Exchange's Memory Cafe in Newbury next month. I have plenty of new stories to share as well as some musical instruments and an assortment of hats. There's always a chance that someone might want to play a part or make the sound effects.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHVAJxz9u6t5e4jV-IecEroWaADq841nGGNqV9YQfavlQfkXv0aULwwjFWwJYbWfKed0aQodV7gbcGufvI7XWqdbDo-rYQRa0h6jxNDFNbeP-eaJpsakcj_i6xhvKyTzCMJwBGPuc1oU/s1600/Songs-for-the-Unsung.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1028" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHVAJxz9u6t5e4jV-IecEroWaADq841nGGNqV9YQfavlQfkXv0aULwwjFWwJYbWfKed0aQodV7gbcGufvI7XWqdbDo-rYQRa0h6jxNDFNbeP-eaJpsakcj_i6xhvKyTzCMJwBGPuc1oU/s200/Songs-for-the-Unsung.jpg" width="128" /></a>Am I writing myself? Well, the short answer is 'yes and no' - which means I'm writing in gasps and gulps. I'm very pleased to be one of the contributors to <i>Songs for the Unsung</i> edited by Joy Howard for Grey Hen Press. There are some terrific poems in this, many by poets I have a lot of respect for, and there are various launch readings taking place this year.<br />
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I shall be reading from it at Kenilworth Books, Leamington Spa on Wednesday 20th June.<br />
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<span style="color: #1c1b17; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;">‘They are
everywhere. They curl on streets in quiet blankets, wait at borders, work in
cabbage fields, staff hospitals by night. They can be unheard, unseen. But when
you read the generous and eloquent poems in this anthology, they are no longer
the unsung.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong><i><span style="color: #1c1b17; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Alison Brackenbury<o:p></o:p></span></i></strong></div>
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<span style="color: #1c1b17; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;">‘This
beautiful compilation illuminates lives of the unseen and unheard, unheeded
and, at times, hated. Here is a migrant child making sense of insults, here
someone kind meeting a stranger and listening. We are blessed witnesses, guided
gently out of grey apathy, towards understanding. And those words. They sound
like intonations, not to the careless gods above, but to the humanity within
each of us.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong><i><span style="color: #1c1b17; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Yasmin Alibhai-Brown</span></i></strong><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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You can buy the collection <b><a href="http://www.greyhenpress.com/books/">here</a></b>.<br />
<br />
Similarly, <i>Poems for Grenfell Tower</i> is a very good collection - again, featuring work by poets whose work I admire. The book is available from Onslaught Press. Here is a brief extract lifted from the foreword by David Lammy MP:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The poems are able to express the scale of loss, in a way
that prose is not able to do — from the empty school chair invoked in Michael
Rosen’s piece, to Rachel Burns’s ‘In a Hotel Room, A Father Sits Alone’. Unlike
countless newspaper articles and reports in the media, poetry goes some of the
way in allowing the reader to understand what is really missing — a child in a
schoolroom, a much loved daughter.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfQ4OsmJPn4O2JcnC7iONY2JHAxxzTiD-S-eL8NtFD06ZldmdcztFgUQnfJJLzZPiAK44aJFy4Hk1EaKVSfcsbhK2SkVXwtPxzl8U9gUnUSgzbF_OZYmeTzHNoC8RZfd0a2v-VobAgtE/s1600/Grenfell_cov-555x710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="555" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfQ4OsmJPn4O2JcnC7iONY2JHAxxzTiD-S-eL8NtFD06ZldmdcztFgUQnfJJLzZPiAK44aJFy4Hk1EaKVSfcsbhK2SkVXwtPxzl8U9gUnUSgzbF_OZYmeTzHNoC8RZfd0a2v-VobAgtE/s200/Grenfell_cov-555x710.jpg" width="156" /></a><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Poems for Grenfell Tower</span></em><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> brings together many different poets, whose voices are joined together in
elegy. Ricky Nuttall, a Red Watch firefighter who attended Grenfell, offers a
heart-wrenching account of coming to terms with what happened. His heroism is
reinforced by Christine Barton’s ‘Red Watch’, which pays a moving tribute to
the work of firefighters. Poems such as these are able go beyond the limits of
prose in expressing the impact of the tragedy. In doing so, they offer an
important way in which the voices of Grenfell are heard.</span></blockquote>
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Dates for readings from <i>Poems for Grenfell Tower </i>are as follows:<br />
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Harrow
Club<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
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</x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> April 15 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Machynlleth<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> April 21 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Seven
Dials Club<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> April 27 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Cape
of Good Hope, Oxford<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> May 4 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Artefact
Café, Birmingham<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> June
8 <o:p></o:p></x-tab></div>
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RMT
Education Centre, Doncaster<x-tab> </x-tab> June 14 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Dolman
Theatre, Newport<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>June 14 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Scottish
Poetry Lib, Edinburgh<x-tab> </x-tab> June 23 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Newcastle<x-tab> </x-tab>
venue TBA<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>June
27 <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bradford
Literary Festival<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> July 7</div>
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Poetry Library, South Bank<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab>
</x-tab> September 5</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
You can buy the anthology <b><span style="color: #274e13;"><a href="http://onslaughtpress.com/product/poems-for-grenfell-tower-pre-ordernow/">here</a></span></b> - and for every £10 spent, £5 will go to the Grenfell Foundation.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-48636449185372694472018-02-09T10:01:00.000-08:002018-02-09T10:01:12.805-08:00Albion Beatnik R.I.P.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQn_EjRCRlgcv3idyl4arQ5njp-QqjcITunQom5FTUuiPrrdLOCrKdnhS5np3-YvY8LzLyn1kqkYpyUQcXxtBTcB2zw2zuNv7H3-0kMIgIx5kMW38kKOYVhpJuBt9QL1JYRBtlJsyJa0/s1600/albion-beatnik.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="340" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQn_EjRCRlgcv3idyl4arQ5njp-QqjcITunQom5FTUuiPrrdLOCrKdnhS5np3-YvY8LzLyn1kqkYpyUQcXxtBTcB2zw2zuNv7H3-0kMIgIx5kMW38kKOYVhpJuBt9QL1JYRBtlJsyJa0/s400/albion-beatnik.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Earlier this week, the news broke that Albion Beatnik is closed. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t absolutely
gutted, but I know Dennis Harrison has given his all to the shop; it’s a wonder he's kept going for so long, working the hours he does. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I worked in the book trade in Belfast and Manchester
for a while and I’ve been a frequenter of bookshops since my early teens. Albion Beatnik was the stand-out one for me and very likely always will be. It had a
combination of outsider curiosity, erudition, quirkiness and downright
homeliness. It was also the social glue for many different communities. We are,
I often think, like Venn diagrams. We overlap from time to time, but we don’t
always meet. Dennis must have had a remarkable overview.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sadly, I can’t make the 'last gasp' reading tomorrow, but I do
want to take this opportunity to thank Dennis for adding so substantially to the
quality of our lives in so many random ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saturday 10th February at 7:30 pm </span></div>
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Free entry</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rory Waterman and US poet Richard
Robbins</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rory was born in Belfast in 1981,
grew up in rural Lincolnshire, and lives in Nottingham where he is Senior
Lecturer in English at Nottingham Trent University. His first collection of
poetry, <i>Tonight The Summer's Over</i>, was a Poetry Book Society
Recommendation and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Prize. His latest
collection, <i>Sarajevo Roses</i>, has just been published by Carcanet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Albion Beatnik Bookstore</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">34 Walton Street</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oxford OX2 6AA</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Phone: </span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">07737 876213</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.albonbeatnik.co.uk/" style="font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">www.albionbeatnik.co.uk</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_128240240400" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_128240240400" style="font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook group</span></a></div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-49043098906229578912018-01-11T13:00:00.000-08:002018-01-11T13:00:49.688-08:00Another Year and Never Enough Poems<div class="separator tr_bq" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another year ends and inevitably it finds me in reckoning up mode as I go forward into 2018.<br />
<br />
Politics aside for the moment - the battle for something as simple as the advancement of human welfare never ceases and I have already said a great deal on the matter - there is never enough time for poetry. By that, I mean there is never enough time to write it and never enough time to read it. I am hungry and I like to feast deeply, so whilst the festive period might bring me several much wanted collections - for which, thanks - there is far too much going on all around me...<br />
<br />
...unless you get flu...<br />
<br />
...which I did.<br />
<br />
Out came the 'poorly blanket' I'd spent the previous twenty years knitting (which probably marks the last time I had flu) and out came the pile of books saved for just such an occasion. Except that this year's flu is a bit like being hit over the head with a cast iron frying pan and left for dead. All I could do was lie there looking at the pile of books...<br />
<br />
I managed to crawl out of my pit to conduct a fabulous wedding in the grounds of Minster Lovell and, after a surprise snowfall, this was particularly splendid, but after that I was good for nothing.<br />
<br />
Despite this, Sophie Herxheimer's <i>Velkom to Inklandt </i>was just the kick-start I needed. This is poetry that absolutely demands to be read aloud (packets of Jakemans and Potter's Cough Remover) in order to get every nuance. It's a delight and it is highly original. Interspersed between poems that are poignant and intimate are Herxheimer's exquisite paper cuts and these are also intimate. Several poets, including myself, are considering the significance of objects in relation to their owners at the moment. Personal possessions say so much about human vulnerability. This is a book to treasure and share.<br />
<br />
I am looking forward to reading Ocean Vuong's <i>Night Sky with Exit Wounds</i> this year and (hint) I'm desperately hoping someone has bought this for me. I'm looking forward to reading more of Jack Underwood's work, too.<br />
<br />
The latest issue of <a href="https://magmapoetry.com/latest-issue/"><b><span style="color: #660000;">Magma</span></b> </a>has been an inspiration and a revelation. Magma is unique in that it has a rotating editorship. It is also unique in that it is the first written word magazine (to my knowledge) to explore D/deaf poetry. If you have never come across D/deaf poetry before, here are my recommendations:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://player.vimeo.com/video/215434673"><b style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #660000;">Ksenia Balabina</span></b></a><br />
<br /><b><a href="https://deaffirefly.com/"><span style="color: #660000;">Donna Williams</span></a></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Clearly, this is going to be a year in which language becomes increasingly important for me. I have always felt that there is a synaesthetic connection between words and their reception. The more textured and various my vocabulary becomes, the wider my scope and terms of reference. Rosamund Taylor says in 'Sheep's Head Peninsula' -<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
So many words are wrong:<br />the closed letters of dog - dog<br />is mouth and paw against my leg;<br />the heaviness of home - home is circles<br />joining.<b><br /></b></blockquote>
<span id="goog_783883442"></span><span id="goog_783883443"></span>It is not enough to know my own language. There are as many ways of listening as there are of seeing or feeling or tasting. Take <i>bread</i>, the feel of the word in your mouth. Take <i>brot</i>, <i>pain</i>, <i>bánh mì</i>, <i>akara</i>, <i>chleb, rooti</i>. Roll them around. Know their weight and their texture. Take<span style="color: #660000; font-weight: bold;"> </span>BSL now.<br />
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<br />
Doesn't that taste different, too? There is no hierarchy of bread. It is ridiculous to assume one.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-54790263758745314002017-09-25T14:24:00.001-07:002017-09-25T15:10:53.964-07:00Quietly flows the river...The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said that no person can ever step in the same river twice because it is never the same river and the person is not the same person. However much we may wish to go back, however much we may wish to repeat the same experience, we are stuck in the present, going forward. Stuck is the wrong word, of course, because the present is always changing. If stasis exists it is entirely of one's own construction. It exists in the mind.<br />
<br />
Last week was the tenth anniversary of my sister's death. Ten years. That's supposed to be a milestone, isn't it? But that's also a construction. Every day since her death has been a different day. I am a different person to the one I was when I received the phone call that September night and I really wouldn't want to swap the new me for the old me. Which is not to say I don't miss my sister and it's not to say that I don't still love her and wish her by my side. But grief can't keep up with the living. Our footsteps outmatch grief in nearly every instance I can think of. There are very few people who enter the two dimensional world of stasis.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2tA_yql2njd2Sli0owUQmv0o8Y8rtc9Hmd9MmKtDFQ6LcCp0NC9h0P275SRj8ehFwn7dYi_LpBRA0V8st_ux0RB7VIKCI8cGTsHeX0QqnPxPPa0uA7UrOsLRFX2hL-ALuiMhg3sfzi4/s1600/WP_20170902_19_54_00_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2tA_yql2njd2Sli0owUQmv0o8Y8rtc9Hmd9MmKtDFQ6LcCp0NC9h0P275SRj8ehFwn7dYi_LpBRA0V8st_ux0RB7VIKCI8cGTsHeX0QqnPxPPa0uA7UrOsLRFX2hL-ALuiMhg3sfzi4/s640/WP_20170902_19_54_00_Pro.jpg" width="355" /></a>And yet...<br />
<br />
There has been a fundamental shift in me. My capacity for happiness has been altered. I'm talking about profound happiness here. Happiness is different to having fun. Anyone can have fun. Happiness is deeply layered. It's like love. It is love, perhaps.<br />
<br />
Nobody could make me laugh like my sister. She made me laugh in a way that was like being joined to her. Her hair, which was the colour of sunshine, had a texture that reminded me how her presence could fill an entire room. She was like light itself.<br />
<br />
I used to find strands of her hair in random places after she'd come to England to visit - on a jumper, on a cushion, on the page of a book. And there were those occasions we'd both think of the same thing at the same time or we'd buy each other the same present. Then there was the last holiday together.<br />
<br />
I flew over to Tucson for her 50th birthday. It was the happiest holiday of my life. I thought that then and I thought that afterwards when I was flying back and that's the way that holiday has been ever since. No other holiday has ever matched it.<br />
<br />
We had fun - plenty of it - and we had moments of quiet contentment. We walked every day, we drove into the desert, we watched tumultuous rain running down from the mountains into the city run-offs, we talked about death and severance, we shared the awe that comes from looking at a human body stripped down to its tendons and vascular system in an exhibition and it was pretty much the same curiosity that held us spellbound when a tarantula crawled like a slender hand down the wall into her yard one night. We were so used to sharing, so used to sitting side by side, so used to just being with one another.<br />
<br />
And then it was all gone.<br />
<br />
My picture is of the River Vecht near Ommen in the Netherlands. I chose it because I took so many photos of it during my last evening camping there and every shot is different. I also chose it because the holiday I had this summer has been my happiest holiday in ten years. It has been the equal of the holiday I've just been describing.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I was just ready for happiness to enter my life again. But I think it was more than that. I suspect happiness has to be earned. I spent the whole year prior to it learning German. It's not been easy. In fact, I've found it quite a struggle. I also signed up to an exchange visit with Oxford poets to poets and artists in Bonn. Trying to translate your own work and reading in German as well as in English was, frankly, more than a little unnerving. I also worked flat-out before I went away - I did a two month stint without a single weekend off. The prospect of the holiday was starting to become more than a little significant. There was the mileage involved. From Hoek van Holland to Uelzen and down to the Black Forest and then up to Bonn and back through the Netherlands again was fairly demanding. It was going to be sad-sweet too - post-Brexit, post the deaths of some really close friends, not to mention the climate of mass migrations and terrible violence in the world. There was something keenly alert in me as I set out for Harwich at the beginning of August, something resonating in a way I couldn't easily describe.<br />
<br />
First off was the sea, where I always begin and end up in my poems and stories, and the stunned realisation that these days the Atlantic doesn't play much of a part in my emotional world. I was longing to swim in the North Sea, which I did more or less on my arrival. And I couldn't wait to get on my bike and cycle amongst the dunes, which I did, or test out my rather limited German, which I also did. I was prickling all over with life.<br />
<br />
Next I had to buy a <i>Plakette</i> for the <i>Umweltzonen</i> and new tyres for my car. Talking tyres with blokes in a garage is like speaking a different language anyway. Talking tyres in German took it to a whole new level. And so to L<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ü</span>neburg Heath which this time of year is covered in purple heather and a fabulous campsite with an ice cold pool fed by ditch running off the Ilmenau river. It rained for three days, but there were such moments of clarity - a tiny tot with a top-knot sitting in the middle of a blanket just being herself underneath the dripping leaves and splashes of birdsong, a man swimming silently in the rain, sitting in the sun picking dirt out of my cycling cleats after grappling with a <i>schlecht</i> and <i>schlammig</i> cyclepath for several kilometres, the sudden smell of chamomile, a raven's call from a far off tree.<br />
<br />
Trying to find clarity at Bergen-Belsen was not possible, though. In the end you give up, because the scale and depth of human cruelty is just beyond you. It has gone on for centuries and it continues even as I write this. It isn't a tragedy. I think of a tragedy as something quite incidental. Holocausts are deliberate. The extermination of native populations in the Americas and Tasmania, the African slave trade, Pol Pot's massacres, hundreds of thousands of women burnt at the stake as witches, this unspeakable horror of Nazi death camps, Rwanda, former Yugoslavia, the persecution of Yazidis...<br />
<br />
And yet...<br />
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<br />
These mittens were made by a Russian woman at the camp. A little girl who had been deported to Bergen-Belsen without her parents used to visit her in the hut where people could get potato peelings. The woman gave her a turnip on her first day. The little girl used to go every day. Sometimes the Russian woman was there, sometimes not. Sometimes the woman had something for her, sometimes not. One day, a very cold day in January, the woman gave her these <i>Handschuhe</i>. She'd made them from the threads of blankets. The girl never saw her again. Yvonne Koch is in her 80s now and she gives talks to young people. She became a research doctor and worked on an AIDS project. Her message today is strongly humanitarian. But for the Russian woman's kindness, that little girl may not have survived. There is human warmth even in the most forsaken of places. We must never forget that.<br />
<br />
I drove down to the Black Forest in the second week and in some ways the next nine days felt like a healing process, though I'm not sure what healing can actually take place after witnessing such horrors. Perhaps it isn't healing then. Perhaps it's more of an adjustment, a shifting of perspective, a search for context to give some kind of shape to the narrative arc of human experience.<br />
<br />
I understand now why every German I spoke to lit up whenever I said I was holidaying <i>in den Schwarzwald</i>. It has always held a place in my imagination, but for German people, it's the imagination of the blood. Here is a landscape of folklore and storytelling, rich with symbolism and archetypes, and there's something amazing about a green that is so dense that it is actually black. The skyline is a sequence of dancing curves. Everywhere are the calls of crows and ravens and soaring birds of prey. Closer to, is the liquid sound of nuthatches and the shy peeps of bullfinches. Tiny flowers nestle in the crooks of rocks and fallen logs. Sapling firs grow out of the root balls of upended pines that have tumbled down a slope in a storm. Rainbow fungi hug the sides of trees. Pools of rainwater reflect the sun and sky. Small streams trickle between banks of thick moss. You tread quietly in these places. You listen more. You accompany yourself in a way that you never could in a city or town.<br />
<br />
I walked for miles. I cycled for miles. I climbed hills and swooped down into magnificent valleys. Sometimes I just sat and and looked.<br />
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<br />
I wasn't exactly ready for Bonn - any city seems a strange and alien place after such stillness - but I was refreshed and looking forward to meeting everyone. Bonn is Oxford's twin city. Both cities are celebrating 70 years of their twinning agreement. It was a brave thing to set up in 1947. Today, we have regular exchanges of choirs and student groups. This was the first between poets and artists, or certainly the first I've been involved with. Preparations had been under way for some time and we were probably all feeling a little nervous.<br />
<br />
Our reception by <i>Dada war alles gut</i> couldn't have been warmer or more generous. We quickly began to establish good working relationships and after a rehearsal were very likely as ready as we'd ever be for the public performance with Diana Bell's <a href="http://www.thebigquestionmarkartproject.com/bonn/"><b><span style="color: #660000;">'Big Question Mark'</span></b></a>. Open air readings are notoriously difficult and we had to deal with a failed microphone, a helicopter, a plane and church bells as well as local traffic. Nevertheless, people seemed to be listening really very closely as we read in both languages.<br />
<br />
Diana's installation was easier to engage with. It generated a lot of discussion. Her key questions were -<br />
<br />
Where do you come from?<br />
Where are your roots?<br />
Where do you belong?<br />
<br />
These are not easy to answer. I have always believed I could live almost anywhere in the world given the right set of circumstances. My answers might be different if I were to be displaced or forcibly removed and held against my will. The longing for home when you're behind bars is like starvation and bereavement rolled into one.<br />
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My hosts, Eva and Oliver, were extraordinarily generous with their time and hospitality. It is a privilege to be accepted into the heart of someone's home. It can be quite daunting to open yourself up to a complete stranger, but we shared some lengthy conversations about our cultural heritages and about history in general. We talked deeply about so many things and we also spent a great deal of time laughing and knocking back a few beers in the process. It felt like a huge wrench when I eventually left to start the homeward journey. I hope we remain friends for a very long time.<br />
<br />
The exchange entailed a visit to Bonn's Oxford Club - which I found rather quaint with its red telephone box outside and plates of crustless egg sandwiches and bland mini-pasties inside. Is this really the best Oxford catering can come up with? What about our Lebanese restaurants? What about my favourite little Jamaican haunt? Still, it was interesting to meet so many friends of Oxford.<br />
<br />
Again and again I was asked why I've been learning German. I started in an on-and-off sort of way a number of years ago and it wasn't at all like my epic love affair with France which prompted me to learn French. It hasn't been a lavender, wine and literature courtship. It's felt more like righting a wrong. I had a German penfriend as a teenager whom I really regretted losing touch with, especially as our careers ran on parallel tracks in the end. When he died, I couldn't recover that lost ground. I couldn't read his obituary and I couldn't understand the songs he sang. Having German friends has been influential, too, and finally there began to grow in me a curiosity about my own language. When I embarked on reading and transforming the Grimms' <i>hausm<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">ä</span>rchen </i>for <i>Kissing Bones</i>, the journey truly started.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKkMo7xVODm-N23AwYJqo09EUW8W5cEyeDRH_szppjMraKL1q5jHfjxkGBPG9aICuEeoMWQwUsz8bH50e-lIhyVnkvTUzK8EuWOzQeiiuXPOWMb4em8AjAMqPVlQ-Nvphi9MfGDGkjAM/s1600/Arp+WS_20170829_141225_hdr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKkMo7xVODm-N23AwYJqo09EUW8W5cEyeDRH_szppjMraKL1q5jHfjxkGBPG9aICuEeoMWQwUsz8bH50e-lIhyVnkvTUzK8EuWOzQeiiuXPOWMb4em8AjAMqPVlQ-Nvphi9MfGDGkjAM/s320/Arp+WS_20170829_141225_hdr.jpg" width="320" /></a>The Bonn poets were great to work with. We spent a marvellous day at the Arp Museum, where <i>Dada war alles gut</i> meet, exploring the work of Henry Moore and Hans Arp and learning about the history of the place. Eva Wal was an inspirational guide.<br />
<br />
Nearly everyone was able to write something that day. I was so completely overwhelmed, I couldn't find my way into anything. Arp is an asterisk floating off the page to Moore's heavily underlined footnote. I got lost somewhere between the two. Moore always takes me inside my own body - it's the world of bones and ligaments and cartilage - the world my sister and I were so fascinated by. Arp moves with atoms and the ever-expanding universe. So, no, I haven't been directly responding, but I am currently preoccupied with the estimated atomic weight of a human being when it's alive and with the function of the atoms that comprise the human body when we are not. It's going to take a long time for something to emerge.<br />
<br />
Our final reading together at Jacques' Wein-Depot was a treat. Without the distractions of traffic and church bells, we were really able to focus on each other's work. It was a very rich experience and, as always, wonderful to hear the poems in both languages. The rhythms are interesting. I had always thought that perhaps English and German were quite similar in many ways. They aren't. The unique syntax puts a completely different pressure on a line. Learning another language enables you to think more deeply about prosody and diction.<br />
<br />
This is reflected in a much wider and more global context. Learning another language, learning about another cultures enables you to explore your own.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No man is an island,<br />
Entire of itself,<br />
Every man is a piece of the continent,<br />
A part of the main.<br />
If a clod be washed away by the sea,<br />
Europe is the less.<br />
As well as if a promontory were.<br />
As well as if a manor of thy friend's<br />
Or of thine own were:<br />
Any man's death diminishes me,<br />
Because I am involved in mankind,<br />
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;<br />
It tolls for thee.</blockquote>
John Donne<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Kein Mann ist ein Insel<br />
Eine Gesamtheit f<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">ü</span>r sich.<br />
Jeder ist ein St<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">ü</span>ck des Kontinents,<br />
Ein Teil des Ganzen.<br />
W<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ä</span>re ein Klumpen durch das Meer weggewaschen,<br />
Ist Europa weniger.<br />
Sowie, als ob es ein Kap w<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ä</span>re.<br />
Sowie, asl ob ein Wesen deines eigens<br />
Oder deines Freundes w<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ä</span>re.<br />
Der Tod jeder verringert mich<br />
Denn ich bin mit der Menschheit beteiligt.<br />
Also schick nicht ze wissen<br />
F<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ü</span>r wen die Glocke l<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ä</span>utet:<br />
Sie l<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ä</span>utet f<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ü</span>r dich.<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Ü</span>bersetzung: David Paley</blockquote>
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Here is the Vecht again in the early hours of the morning before I left. As I cycled off to the car with my sodden tent strapped to the pannier rack, the day began changing...<br />
and changing...<br />
and changing...<br />
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Links:<br />
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<a href="http://www.dianabell.co.uk/"><b><span style="color: #660000;">Diana Bell</span></b></a><br />
<b><a href="http://evawal.blogspot.co.uk/2017/08/"><span style="color: #660000;">Eva Wal</span></a></b><br />
<b><a href="https://oxfordstanza2.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: #660000;">Oxford Stanza II</span></a></b><br />
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Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-66565951080531152522017-07-20T14:42:00.001-07:002017-07-20T15:35:20.144-07:00The Spectrum of LightWhat an enormously creative year this has been for so far. Not personally - I have had very little time to write - but in terms of facilitating the writing and helping to nourish the imaginative landscape of everyone I have come into contact with. For several months I have found myself juggling five different jobs and many weeks have stretched beyond seven days till they've run one into the other in a seamless winterspringsummer. However, I can honestly say that I haven't wished myself elsewhere. I am constantly awakened and energised by people. And, of course, the nourishment goes two ways. I am very lucky to be doing this work.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJW9MjA-EPOx90PpDtjwLbRj5SfS7Qczlo8PNRB9kKyDuZsyt5MVskbTrzASM_0MlFG5wm9yGmqBJtDDFjZf7KKZuYLOFbC6b1QiD5HwVY8xNNQI1nfuBPcnpL91VsqCwFJmvpAy5v4k/s1600/WP_20170625_12_38_34_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJW9MjA-EPOx90PpDtjwLbRj5SfS7Qczlo8PNRB9kKyDuZsyt5MVskbTrzASM_0MlFG5wm9yGmqBJtDDFjZf7KKZuYLOFbC6b1QiD5HwVY8xNNQI1nfuBPcnpL91VsqCwFJmvpAy5v4k/s320/WP_20170625_12_38_34_Pro.jpg" width="179" /></a><i>Waving Hello</i> has been a tremendous project. It culminated in a display in Bonn Square in Oxford of 3,000 paper boats made by the people we'd worked with as well as by passing members of the public. Each boat was placed in memory of the thousands of people who have made the perilous journey across the Mediterranean Sea to find safety. We also remembered those who haven't made it. Even as we celebrated the wealth of music, art, poetry and storytelling that migrants bring with them, we recognised the appalling conditions that so often drive people to take such risks.<br />
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We read poems written by pupils from the schools we'd worked with - Buckland CE Primary and Blackbird Academy Trust schools Orchard Meadow, Pegasus and Windale. The poems reflected deep concerns for the safety and well-being of refugees and asylum seekers. Frankly, the humanity and compassion of these young citizens puts many of our politicians to shame.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXk7DzhuVLED32ckeXtHwsdpVsDeDN5uF-LDbJ-ydv4JBudGLA0XVFB7LhtlMwSw4qCl_006GfLod54POS-nxLg1iVLrckpCDmmGxmPMTTjVnxxs098Q8y_yXDEfPHtEZB68F1ASEpf_A/s1600/WP_20170625_12_32_34_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="899" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXk7DzhuVLED32ckeXtHwsdpVsDeDN5uF-LDbJ-ydv4JBudGLA0XVFB7LhtlMwSw4qCl_006GfLod54POS-nxLg1iVLrckpCDmmGxmPMTTjVnxxs098Q8y_yXDEfPHtEZB68F1ASEpf_A/s320/WP_20170625_12_32_34_Pro.jpg" width="179" /></a>We sang the songs that had been especially written by Arne Richards and listened to speeches from Asylum Welcome, Dr Ramzy from the Muslim Council of Britain and Isabel Knowland, who conceived the project.<br />
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Besides working with schoolchildren, we've worked with detainees at Campsfield House and have also enjoyed the support of the Ashmolean Museum. One of the highlights for us was the visit to Buckland School from women from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-HNtdFcPTQ" style="color: #660000; font-weight: bold;">BK LUWO</a>. Filda Abelkec-Lukonyomoi's story of survival had a tremendous impact on all of us. I have nothing but praise for the teachers of the classes we worked with, too.<br />
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It has been a real pleasure working alongside Arne and Isabel from <a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/Waving-Hello"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>Oxford Concert Party</b></span></a> - they've even had me singing and dancing and anyone who knows me will recognise that that is not an easy thing to achieve. It's been a pleasure, too, to work alongside <a href="http://www.anthonylloyd.co.uk/"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>Tony Lloyd</b></span></a> whose fine printing workshops I have previously attended as a student. We missed our lovely Helen Kidd though and we shared her poem with everyone on the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofg8z2fDfLxgTzlwJzYWE41J2-q32A_l7VKa4llm_XCjpO4DKbGxClCVHN0cwXuvuPFA1Bgl5ZWHafESXXBwaNdHLFGlii7gTAuxI9h3w9hQAwT2oT7OCHzZ2qrLLJnp6LauY3a8g4B8/s1600/JW_June_2017_DSC_4097+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofg8z2fDfLxgTzlwJzYWE41J2-q32A_l7VKa4llm_XCjpO4DKbGxClCVHN0cwXuvuPFA1Bgl5ZWHafESXXBwaNdHLFGlii7gTAuxI9h3w9hQAwT2oT7OCHzZ2qrLLJnp6LauY3a8g4B8/s320/JW_June_2017_DSC_4097+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Photo by Judie Waldmann</span></td></tr>
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Still on the subject of poetry, I'm nearly at the end of my ten weeks at the OSJCT care home in Henley. We've produced a booklet of 40 poems and also a CD of residents reading poetry and singing Irish folk songs. There's also a splendid percussion rendition of rain to go with a hilarious poem about the real Dr Foster who went to Gloucester.<br />
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Again, I have been struck by the importance of music in these sessions. I have seen people transformed by a song or a passage of classical music. People who have been described to me as 'non-verbal' have spoken about things they've suddenly remembered.<br />
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One of the things I'm discovering about people living with dementia is that the capacity for creativity does not diminish when language becomes compromised. If the right word cannot be found, often a more wonderful and textured evocation will surface. Somebody told me she couldn't hear a thing when she held a sea shell to her ear. "But you're happening," she said suddenly. "And we're happening." And so we were, all of us.<br />
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My six month writing workshop tour of England finishes this week too. <a href="https://www.creativefuture.org.uk/"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>Creative Future</b></span></a> run these workshops in conjunction with the <a href="https://literary.creativefuture.org.uk/"><span style="color: #660000;"><b>Literary Awards</b></span></a> competition. This year we've focused on Newcastle, Brighton and Birmingham and the wealth of writing that has emerged from each area has been really exciting. It's been great to see some of that channelled into the competition too, though as judges, we had no idea who had submitted work or indeed whether any had come from the workshops until <i>after </i>we'd chosen the winners. I have to keep schtum, though. No spoilers here. Wait and see when the winners are announced!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DtHTqcwDu2rQscVH98r4B5Shcj7_VKVaDLc-T5oCAewE1MPOzwqG9mdDVoChhRvBsxUz1q87Iy50jYie0tk4c8lh8W28TishwQ3eK6MHpyzzBVi7MeqeC-fYRSG1qLyPEESCHeKPmGI/s1600/JW_June_2017_DSC_4390+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="687" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DtHTqcwDu2rQscVH98r4B5Shcj7_VKVaDLc-T5oCAewE1MPOzwqG9mdDVoChhRvBsxUz1q87Iy50jYie0tk4c8lh8W28TishwQ3eK6MHpyzzBVi7MeqeC-fYRSG1qLyPEESCHeKPmGI/s320/JW_June_2017_DSC_4390+%25282%2529.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Photo by Judie Waldmann</span></td></tr>
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Summer is the wedding and baby naming season and we celebrants can be kept very busy this time of year. As someone who does funerals as well, I feel I am involved with the narrative arc of human life. This ties in very closely with the art of storytelling as well as with poetry and music. All my jobs feel like they belong to the same spectrum of light. They're like colours balancing and bouncing off one another.<br />
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I'm hoping for some rainbow moments when I'm on holiday and finally able to write.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-50712097231954254912017-05-15T11:49:00.000-07:002017-05-15T11:49:03.591-07:00Those We Celebrate<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0b5394;">In Memoriam</span></h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">Last month, Oxford lost a wonderful poet and an inspiring, compassionate friend. Helen Kidd will be remembered for a very long time. She was so much a part of our lives. We will cherish her memory. </span></h4>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">I had the privilege to work with her recently on the Waving Hello project. She had a tremendous presence and wit and wisdom in equal proportions. She was delightfully wicked sometimes. Her humour was quite unique. I know for a fact she helped to keep colleagues at Ruskin sane when they were trying to work under the weird vagaries of certain management figures. She was indomitable. She never lost her humanity or her ability to see the funny side. She was tremendously dedicated to her students - and to her colleagues.</span></h4>
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I remember the first time I met Helen. I didn't know it was her. I hadn't even heard of her. She was in a penguin costume waddling up the middle of Holywell Music Room where Oxford Concert Party were playing. I still had no idea who she was at the end of the concert. It was totally anarchic and somehow also quite sweet. There was an underlying vulnerability to the strange intruder.</div>
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The second time I met Helen, she was in human form. Her office was stuffed with books - she was terrifically well-read - and owls - she was also terrifically knowledgeable about birds. There were toys and daft jokey things of every description - her googly eyeballs had me in stitches. But soon it was down to serious business - a planned workshop for her students. What was I interested in bringing to the group? Did I need any photocopying doing? I could tell how deeply respected she was when she introduced me to the students. I could also tell how that respect was reciprocated. She was a brilliant tutor and also a mentor - I include myself here. She was rigorously honest, incisive and encouraging about my work.</div>
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Later, we would read together in Oxford at the <i>Poems for Jeremy Corbyn</i> launch and I would see then how dazzling she could be in her anger. She wasn't a righteous person, but she was darned right in my books. </div>
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I only knew Helen for a short time. She has left an indelible impression. </div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">Poetry Reading at Albion Beatnik Bookstore in Oxford </span></h3>
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I'm looking forward to being part of a tip-top line-up at Albion Beatnik Bookstore on Tuesday May 23rd. Antonella is a very interesting poet indeed and it will be a rare privilege to to hear her work. If you can make it, you will be richly rewarded, I am sure.<br />
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I recently had a marvellous afternoon in Witney Community Hospital gathering stories and poems from people on Wenrisc Ward. It's really heartening that my local hospital has taken on an arts coordinator and already it's easy to see the difference that's made. Clinical care is not enough on its own. People's emotional and mental well-being must also be taken into account. Do people who feel valued and respected make better recoveries? I don't know, but if their time in hospital is nourishing and memorable for lots of positive reasons, then surely that's a good thing. Also, one shouldn't underestimate the ripple effect. It can have a profound effect on the morale of staff. The NHS is being battered on all sides - by the government and by malevolent hackers. I'm not saying the arts are a cure-all, but at least we can re-affirm our humanity and creativity.<br />
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I've just begun working at Chilterns Court OSJCT home in Henley. This comes on that back of the Making of Me Project. The OSJCT are a very forward looking organisation and there seems to be a genuine willingness to roll out arts projects through all their homes. Again, I am working with the amazing Angela Conlon (pictured above with me).<br />
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And finally, another date for your diaries - <a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/Waving-Hello" style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Waving Hello</span></a><a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/Waving-Hello" style="color: #990000; font-weight: bold;"> </a><span style="color: #990000; font-weight: bold;"> </span>is going out with a splash - or a symbolic one at least. Here's Isabel from Oxford Concert Party doing a Blue Peter number:<br />
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Sail your own boat with your own message on Sunday 25th June 12:00 - 16:00 in Bonn Square, Oxford. Show you care. Tell the world that refugees are welcome here.<br />
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This is my haven, won’t you come in?<br />
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No longer a stranger, welcome my friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Long was your journey,<o:p></o:p></div>
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many the ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Long was the passing <o:p></o:p></div>
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of months, hours, days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now you are safe and out of the storm;<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here in the harbour, sheltered from harm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Helen
Kidd<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-62798768633520086112017-04-15T05:16:00.000-07:002017-04-15T05:23:19.600-07:00From Blob to BlogI have no idea how poets manage to find time to write a weekly blog, spend hours on Facebook and tweet all day long. Are they able to rattle off a poem in a few minutes? Do they sleep? Perhaps they live on a different space-time continuum altogether.<br />
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I really should make more effort though. My blog is is more of a blob. It sits there for months doing nothing.<br />
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So...NEWS! NEWS! NEWS!<br />
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Since my last update I've managed to win the Poetry Society's <a href="http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/poems/the-contract/"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>stanza competition</b></span></a>, which was a very nice surprise. Lots of readings followed, one of which was at their AGM.<br />
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Belonging to a stanza group (mine is Stanza II in Oxford) is very rewarding. Not only do we workshop our poems (it's such an insular business, writing), but we also enjoy visits from other poets and artists. I am very much looking forward to joining my colleagues in Bonn this August for Diana Bell's Big Question Mark project. We shall be active participants in her outdoor installation and will also have the opportunity to meet and work alongside poets from Bonn that weekend. To that end, I am feverishly learning German at the moment!<br />
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Do check out Diana's website. She does amazing work: <span style="color: #990000;"><b>http://www.dianabell.co.uk/</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84aq7TldeG2bMwMYlrDWBL_d-QOc2eBPeHElEOw48SLiK-P_HU1qhYaTyJij1NBHl3E71a3WP7jwUpaR5wGY95KpV6HgJltwPgbhegy8soEDuxxWOtDpiLdp8IYXU17Ch5a706NZASEw/s1600/IMG_0207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84aq7TldeG2bMwMYlrDWBL_d-QOc2eBPeHElEOw48SLiK-P_HU1qhYaTyJij1NBHl3E71a3WP7jwUpaR5wGY95KpV6HgJltwPgbhegy8soEDuxxWOtDpiLdp8IYXU17Ch5a706NZASEw/s320/IMG_0207.JPG" width="320" /></a>The Making of Me project has concluded now. It has been a real joy working in OSJCT care homes around Oxfordshire and I have met many extraordinary people, not least one woman who at 100 years old could remember and recite Wilfred Gibson's poem 'The Ice Cart' in its entirety. I have never been able to commit poems to memory like that. I was utterly spellbound. So was the group I was working with that day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyY8pBCAlKTi5CY_vS49CWn21k4e5a7Wo2T_YP0MKSjYrLfIVAXkAYJBUn-q5bZMykrP-yGKAxB4Zj2tIJoI_H15AMPgNYYnVpIT60uhnzhTcANym2vzv-woXSacq-6aoWAywgOJ_bMMo/s1600/IMG_0232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyY8pBCAlKTi5CY_vS49CWn21k4e5a7Wo2T_YP0MKSjYrLfIVAXkAYJBUn-q5bZMykrP-yGKAxB4Zj2tIJoI_H15AMPgNYYnVpIT60uhnzhTcANym2vzv-woXSacq-6aoWAywgOJ_bMMo/s320/IMG_0232.JPG" width="244" /></a>Its a terrible thing to write off a human being once they've reached a certain age and we do a real disservice to write off someone if they have dementia. In my experience, some of the most illuminating and insightful observations have come from people living with memory loss. The struggle to find words sometimes leads to really exciting linguistic constructions; access to the creative impulse seems far from lessened. A lack of inhibition can throw doors wide open. I don't think I left a single care home during this project without at least 90 individual and collective poems. Some looked back to a time of severe winters and ice storms; others reflected on the moon, childhood and early workdays. Some poems leapt to the interiors of radios and into the bowels of sunken ships. One poem most memorably described prayer as an act of listening and sharing - a poem for our secular times, though it would be hard to find a religious person who disagreed with what was being expressed.<br />
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If you want to eavesdrop on a Making of Me poetry workshop in one of the care homes, here's a link to Radio 4's <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07mvy50"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Front Row</b></span></a>. Once there, move the Seek Bar to 22:50 and you'll hear the amazing Jonny Fluffypunk in action. If you scroll further down the page, you'll see more about Jonny. He really is very gifted and dynamic.<br />
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Hopefully, the success of Making of Me will lead to further work with OSJCT care homes. Indeed, I am shortly to begin working with dance practitioner Angela Conlon at Chilterns Court in Henley (it's great fun working alongside other artists) and there are plans to explore mentoring relationships with activity coordinators and artists throughout the Oxfordshire. Watch this space.<br />
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<a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.org/Waving-Hello"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Waving Hello</b></span> </a>goes from strength to strength. It's always tremendously invigorating working with Oxford Concert Party. This time we have poet <a href="https://www.oxfordwritershouse.com/tutors/helen-kidd"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Helen Kidd</b></span></a> and artist <a href="http://www.anthonylloyd.co.uk/"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Anthony Lloyd</b></span></a> on board. Waving Hello uses music, poetry, storytelling and the visual arts to examine migration and the rich cultural tapestry that is its inevitable legacy. By the end of this summer we will have worked with four primary schools, Campsfield House IRC and women's refugee group <span style="color: #990000;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pg/Bkluwo-132722466769192/about/?ref=page_internal"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>BK-LUWO</b></span></a></span>. None of this would have been possible without the support and resources of the Ashmolean Museum.<br />
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The Creative Future Literary Awards workshops are equally rewarding. Each month I facilitate writing workshops in Newcastle, Birmingham and Brighton for people who find themselves under-represented in literature and publishing. One of the groups I'm most enjoying working with is <a href="https://www.freedomfromtorture.org/"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Freedom From Torture</b></span></a>. Between us, we have at least seven languages - probably more - and wisdom born from experience that is way off the Richter scale. As a couple of people said the other day - "...one hand cannot make a sound. We need to be together, like two hands."<br />
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And finally, I will be visiting Witney Community Hospital for the first time not as a patient with a suspected broken ankle or as someone with a gammy knee but as a writer with a bag of buttons and lots of pens and paper to see what wonderful poems and stories people can come up with. It's very easy to feel your identity has been totally subsumed by an illness and the hours of boredom can seem endless if you're hospitalised for a long spell. It's to Witney's credit that they have taken on Angela Conlon - yes, her again and I doubt she has time for Twitter and Facebook - as their arts coordinator. One way of freeing up beds must surely be to improve people's well-being, though I still think the NHS could do with a massive fiscal injection, never mind repeated boosters.<br />
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Lucky me. In this era of uncertainty I have a constant supply of work and it's also work I really enjoy. I am secure in my nationality, too. But it breaks my heart that my Polish and German friends are now wondering if they will be told to leave their long-established homes and families in post-Brexit Britain. There are many more who face an uncertain future, of course - not least, refugees and asylum seekers. Now, more than ever, our doors need to be open.<br />
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I am afraid of the slow steady march towards fascism. Pastor Niem<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">ö</span>ller - a man who made a considerable political journey in his lifetime - warned us:<br />
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<i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—</i> </div>
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<i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Because I was not a Trade Unionist.</i></div>
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<i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—</i> </div>
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<i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Then they came for me</i><i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">—</i></i></i><br />
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<i style="line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and there was no one left to speak for me.</i></div>
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The growth of Islamophobia is alarming and the attacks on young asylum seekers standing at bus stops is insupportable. We may risk a lot by speaking out, but I am sure we risk even more by remaining silent.</div>
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</span>Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-62635763379234203782016-10-21T05:24:00.000-07:002016-10-21T05:24:04.893-07:00I hear those voices that will not be drowned<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVe8YjKY4VwllrbvQ5Tis05F5jrD6JVMfLigfMn4M_l7z4B7tUOm_3NRyUJlP2je_tGDco0T_-GgZSF8QPPnTk1QBmthA7s8AMTT-WVoYqHNxaJrmROyTBCfxx_vmsYF1tWsXHDeP2Jg/s1600/WP_20160731_12_45_05_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVe8YjKY4VwllrbvQ5Tis05F5jrD6JVMfLigfMn4M_l7z4B7tUOm_3NRyUJlP2je_tGDco0T_-GgZSF8QPPnTk1QBmthA7s8AMTT-WVoYqHNxaJrmROyTBCfxx_vmsYF1tWsXHDeP2Jg/s320/WP_20160731_12_45_05_Pro.jpg" width="179" /></a>The trouble with leading such a full and vivid life is that there is no time to post anything about it. Basically, I'm too busy. Even when I'm on holiday I'm too busy.<br />
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I had a marvellous two weeks camping, cycling and swimming along the south and south east coast of England. The beaches are a bit rough and tumbly with their shelves, but well worth braving the waters if there isn't too much of a swell. A mean temperature of 18 degrees might seem a bit chilly for some, but it was truly exhilarating. I love that tingly feeling you get when you throw yourself in. After a while, your body adjusts and you can swim for as long as you like.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqoiALvncd8VUKdlMqS4QlSeIdf8VwkvPfwMKWFvC0y1cklbjR83kwZIyzJnVPF6B2GVhhRyLaI0q6Ri_pG2YXxvUgh1jE12U2eUYSZVHMCjJQJfgTowsYMz7i0vm_-Lh3UmLD4YSc9hQ/s1600/WP_20160804_17_12_06_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqoiALvncd8VUKdlMqS4QlSeIdf8VwkvPfwMKWFvC0y1cklbjR83kwZIyzJnVPF6B2GVhhRyLaI0q6Ri_pG2YXxvUgh1jE12U2eUYSZVHMCjJQJfgTowsYMz7i0vm_-Lh3UmLD4YSc9hQ/s320/WP_20160804_17_12_06_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a>Romney Marsh has always held a fascination for me. Years ago, when I first cycled there, it was marvellously atmospheric. Now, it's full of rumbling lorries and people wanting to get everywhere fast. Thankfully, Sustrans have created some excellent cycle routes and it's quite possible to enjoy a few hours of wind and birdsong and get a sense of the open sky. The landscape is very flat. It feels like it might go on forever, but the coast is not very far away. Highlights are RSPB Dungeness and Prospect Cottage - Derek Jarman's garden is a wonder - but do avoid intruding upon the new owner's privacy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylfs5qOIv0Ic0ZA0mexwWM1PuCY6VGKA27iHxqpKFkIXttm_hsHSdHE1wl_qzIOUQnro0ycBfmAXnecdC0o1qsfFuPpCIWt3FCdUD8hHLwbI5LcfCLUCmNHhbXcQxk4mG4rIrwWo-nIw/s1600/The_Scallop%252C_Maggi_Hambling%252C_Aldeburgh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylfs5qOIv0Ic0ZA0mexwWM1PuCY6VGKA27iHxqpKFkIXttm_hsHSdHE1wl_qzIOUQnro0ycBfmAXnecdC0o1qsfFuPpCIWt3FCdUD8hHLwbI5LcfCLUCmNHhbXcQxk4mG4rIrwWo-nIw/s320/The_Scallop%252C_Maggi_Hambling%252C_Aldeburgh.jpg" width="320" /></a>Aldeburgh, which I never seem to pronounce properly, so I always sound like a tourist, is an interesting town. If you like sea food, you could hardly find a better place to explore the tastes and textures of the local catch. I can also recommend the Cragg Sisters Tea Room. Their carrot cake is probably the most luxurious you will ever eat. No trip to Aldeburgh would be complete without seeing Maggie Hambling's <i>Scallop. </i>It's quite remarkable and Britten's words resonate even more for me these days with so many thousands dying in their attempts to seek asylum.<br />
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That's Holiday Part I. It was followed by a week in which I was a wedding celebrant, a baby naming celebrant and also one of a group of artists meeting to discuss the possibility of working together on a project involving refugees and asylum seekers, Oxfordshire schools and the Ashmolean Museum...more about that later.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtj0uprmwLQcXpgp4v6vFFTzasB_3MgpRpvyi9q4Vh8I6ZNFZhRU-gIngADYndLhqBTE8hvzeUC0_5uJLGIJaeuzDgQVvflrlruQcnfLqsmdSBSlOo7QQ0iLIjM_ri85aWbOo4Fet_ios/s1600/WP_20160821_07_52_02_Pro+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtj0uprmwLQcXpgp4v6vFFTzasB_3MgpRpvyi9q4Vh8I6ZNFZhRU-gIngADYndLhqBTE8hvzeUC0_5uJLGIJaeuzDgQVvflrlruQcnfLqsmdSBSlOo7QQ0iLIjM_ri85aWbOo4Fet_ios/s320/WP_20160821_07_52_02_Pro+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>Part II took me to France where cyclists are always given a car's width and the roads aren't pocked with holes and turned into death traps. Plenty of good swimming here, too. The long flat sandy beaches of Normandy are well known and I spent hours ploughing the calm waters. It was hard to imagine my stepfather in the D-Day landings when there were children playing with buckets and spades and dogs racing up and down.<br />
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Reminders of the carnage are everywhere and to be honest, I got sick of it. I felt nauseated by a tourist industry built on heroism and the machinery of war. All the roads are named after US soldiers - didn't the roads have names before? Must everything be memorialised? Then I saw something which made me stop and think. There was a sign by the <i>stade </i>near where I was camping. Here, where people play tennis and race round the track, had been a temporary graveyard of 5,000 men. Not far away, there had been two other temporary graveyards - some 14,000 men in total. It suddenly dawned on me that local people would have been witness to that. The young men would have been lying not just on their beaches, but in their fields and ditches, in the roads, by their houses - everywhere. Someone had to pick them up and bury them. The wife of the local <i>maire </i>took responsibility for the 5,000 graves. She placed flowers on them and took pictures to send to their families in the States. One of those men could equally have been my stepfather.<br />
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For every act of brutality, there is an equal act of compassion somewhere in the world. I was witness to and part of an act of compassion recently. A stillborn baby was found in a park in Oxford earlier this year. We buried her this week. We gave her a dignified funeral and people came from miles around to pay their respects and to mourn her. I described her as a bird that had fallen from the nest. She was the saddest gift we will ever know. Sometimes, it takes profound grief to show human beings at their best. I have no doubt that the people of Normandy were affected deeply by what they experienced and I know that such experiences percolate down through the generations, too.<br />
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Compassion and a commitment to the welfare of all human beings is something to celebrate. The artists I met with between my two holidays will be striving to fulfil that. We have recently had news that our funding bid has been met. I don't know about poets being the unacknowledged legislators of the world, but I do know that poets, musicians, storytellers and visual artists are part of the warp and weft of community - and by community, I mean the whole world. We do hear those voices that will not be drowned and we ask that they are heard by everybody. Welcome to our rough and tumbly shores.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-76916276279824081112016-07-21T18:01:00.001-07:002016-07-21T18:01:47.480-07:00Eccles Cakes, Red Kites, a White Horse and an Exploding HedgehogAfter months of 60 hour weeks and working three out of every four weekends, after months of distinctly cool, damp, murky weather, Oxfordshire hit 33⁰, the sun came out and I decided enough was enough and took the following day off to do one of my favourite local rides - the 57 mile round trip to White Horse Hill. It was a mere 28⁰ and there was a stiff little headwind, plus I didn't eat the night before (it's customary to whack a load of pasta into your system in preparation for a bike ride), so my legs were decidedly feak and weeble. Ah, but the joys of birdsong and the majesty of red kites, the can of Coke by a bank of mallow and poppies, the fields of wheat and barley and the discovery of Uffngton Stores just when I was ready to drop.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaSVm4kWEytzxpxkJkNVi8vSUcE5_YfJ8suNUDuQhOCA1kwsL0aZZAgz7TWJqCWekgReoqWIbVraFtT4wixs2HKiNazOcLluUVMywkAzu-kg10yrByDyhyphenhyphenmzR3_Xqly1NCR6dsYfCbJY/s1600/CC0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaSVm4kWEytzxpxkJkNVi8vSUcE5_YfJ8suNUDuQhOCA1kwsL0aZZAgz7TWJqCWekgReoqWIbVraFtT4wixs2HKiNazOcLluUVMywkAzu-kg10yrByDyhyphenhyphenmzR3_Xqly1NCR6dsYfCbJY/s200/CC0014.jpg" width="200" /></a>The woman who served me was like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. There were no sandwiches on the shelves, but she rustled up a ham and cheese one from the back for me. When I confessed that I had an Eccles Cake craving, she produced a packet. I didn't know you could buy them in Oxfordshire. Eccles Cakes in Oxfordshire don't taste like Eccles Cakes in Lancashire, despite what it says on the packet, but never mind. I wolfed them down under the shade of a tree, then started on my sandwich. Happiness is easily achieved with food.<br />
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I saw my friendly magician leaving by the back door. She was heading home for lunch. I was going to wave to her, but another woman was striding purposefully behind her. She sped up and overtook her, then turned round to face her and block her path. She started jabbing the air with her finger. "I'm your manager!" she shouted. Jab, jab, jab. "Don't forget that!" Jab, jab. The magician tried to walk past, but the manager grabbed her by both arms, pinning them to her sides. "Who do you think you are? I'm your manager! Grow up!" The magician said nothing. As far as I could see, there was only one person who needed to grow up and it wasn't the magician. Give me my 60 hour week and three out of every four weekends any day. I wouldn't want to work 9-5 for a woman like that.<br />
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I do a lot of counting when I'm cycling long stretches trying to ignore a headwind and aching shoulders. I make lists. Here are the birds I heard and saw:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTFq-hRSpYkB193nF6jgR9EaheVQ6-6JJuta1nhOXaJnqSItV_tgZjTISm1omQjAdwv-4y-XuVxcpNjIWG43ANAhnZpgX_LkUy4CgzHBmyDuZKzywi0JMRQ80T33IBmNWg5emNAx_rw0/s1600/3252.IMG_7581.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTFq-hRSpYkB193nF6jgR9EaheVQ6-6JJuta1nhOXaJnqSItV_tgZjTISm1omQjAdwv-4y-XuVxcpNjIWG43ANAhnZpgX_LkUy4CgzHBmyDuZKzywi0JMRQ80T33IBmNWg5emNAx_rw0/s320/3252.IMG_7581.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
house sparrows<br />
tree sparrows<br />
lapwings<br />
rooks<br />
crows<br />
magpies<br />
yellowhammers<br />
chaffinches<br />
chiffchaffs<br />
linnets<br />
blue tits<br />
great tits<br />
long-tailed tits<br />
dunnocks<br />
red kites<br />
wood pigeons<br />
collared doves<br />
skylarks<br />
blackbirds<br />
thrushes<br />
greenfinches<br />
goldcrests<br />
buzzards<br />
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There were even more species of litter:<br />
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MacDonalds fries cartons</div>
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MacCafe cups</div>
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Costa cups</div>
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crisp packets</div>
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jumbo crisp packets</div>
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Doritos packets</div>
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cigarette packets</div>
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Diet Coke bottles</div>
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Fanta bottles</div>
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Evian bottles</div>
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Vittel bottles</div>
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Sprite cans</div>
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Diet Coke cans</div>
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Ribena bottles</div>
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Red Bull cans</div>
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Coke bottles</div>
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Coke cans</div>
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Fosters cans</div>
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Strongbow Cans</div>
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Carling cans</div>
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Woodpecker cans</div>
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socks</div>
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sandwich wrappers</div>
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used condoms (well, better used than not, I suppose)</div>
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bin liners </div>
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red bottle tops</div>
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and a rather nice blue gingham handkerchief</div>
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For the record, I put my Eccles Cakes and sandwich wrappers in the bin. The Coke can I chucked over a fence into someone's garden. Only joking. Of course that went in the bin.<br />
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There was a spectacular array of roadkill too:<br />
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1 badger, 1 fox, 2 white doves, 1 pigeon and 1 hedgehog swollen, rather alarmingly, to the size of a football. You wouldn't want to hit that with your front wheel. I think it must have exploded, because it was splattered right across the road on my return journey.<br />
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The view from White Horse Hill was more edifying. I have to get off and push my bike these days. All the things I missed when I was younger and able to dance about on the pedals - orchids and harebells, scabious, pink broom, beetles, dragonflies, simply taking a moment to stand and look behind me to see where I've been, allowing the wind to blow through my hair, hearing a distant skylark, watching the way the clouds stack up, just being - and being conscious of being. I can almost hear the grasshoppers when I look at the photo I took.<br />
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One of the joys of cycling is that for every uphill climb there's a freewheel down and, because you're burning up so many calories, you can happily eat your way from one pit stop to the next. So, ice cream under the shade of another tree, a stop off at Aston Pottery for tea and then home to a long, cool shower and a few stretches before the sun begins to dip and the fairy lights come on in your garden. Finally, there's always that deep unspoken gratitude you feel - thank you legs for still taking me places after all these years and thank you providence for not letting me end up like that hedgehog.<br />
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Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4421978584607328798.post-67853092085329090552016-04-04T12:34:00.000-07:002016-04-04T12:34:02.541-07:00Bread for Everybody!What an exciting few months I'm going to have. I've just finished my second poetry residency in Westgate House, one of the excellent <a href="http://www.osjct.co.uk/"><b><span style="color: red;">OSJCT</span></b> </a>homes in Oxfordshire, and have already started on my next one at Isis House.<br />
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<a href="https://www.courtyard.org.uk/aop"><b><span style="color: red;">Hereford Courtyard's</span> </b></a>Making of Me project is unique in that it has a rolling team of dancers, actors and poets going into care homes for a period of ten weeks each. Each home will have had all three arts disciplines over the course of a year. Whilst many schools are under pressure to focus more on Ebaac subjects, it is becoming widely recognised that the arts have an intrinsic value in older people's lives. I dread to think what effect academisation will have on the arts within our education system. I can only think that they will become increasingly marginalised.<br />
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Anyone who has read this blog or who knows me will know I have been banging on about this for ages, but the arts genuinely enhance people's well-being. The storytelling workshops I do for Newbury Corn Exchange's brilliant <a href="http://cornexchangenew.com/events/info/memory-cafe"><span style="color: red;"><b>Memory Café </b></span></a>are energising and fun. They also get people talking. Dementia is a serious issue. Our memories and our ability to share those memories are part of who we are. Our pasts shape our identities. The way we see the world shapes our identities. This is why so many care homes are now employing activity co-ordinators. Years ago, there was no such provision. It is entirely normal to want to share human experience with each other.<br />
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Why children should be different I have no idea. Their need is no less. I spent years working with young people at risk on a multi-arts project in Oxfordshire and I witnessed the blossoming of many an individual who left to go on to college or work. Years ago, when there was actually a youth service, I worked with young people on an extended performance poetry project. They have grown into fine adults who are giving an enormous amount to their communities. Never, ever underestimate the power of a damned good poem to change someone's life!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitn5Iq-l7xLubQg3vpftyf7Hru3I5vC9ONp20rriJOdymFnUWhl1nBfITQTlHTSk_YHoN14ZCMNhiMOmTurBMDQvlaAT3d_xm0gqFV_aZ5XGG179fCLUD8DA051tzfM6tKF7mxpmhGAlQ/s1600/InspirationalQuotes.Club-world-heaven-flower-eternity-William-Blake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitn5Iq-l7xLubQg3vpftyf7Hru3I5vC9ONp20rriJOdymFnUWhl1nBfITQTlHTSk_YHoN14ZCMNhiMOmTurBMDQvlaAT3d_xm0gqFV_aZ5XGG179fCLUD8DA051tzfM6tKF7mxpmhGAlQ/s320/InspirationalQuotes.Club-world-heaven-flower-eternity-William-Blake.jpg" width="320" /></a>OK, that's a bit of a claim, but when I was working at HMP Long Lartin there was a prisoner whose life was changed by reading William Blake's 'Auguries of Innocence'. Something happened to him the day he came rushing into the writing workshop with the book in his hand. He began writing and thinking on a deeper level. He began seeing things more clearly and - this is crucial - he began to understand himself. He has since turned his life completely around.<br />
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Arts workers are generally paid a pittance. I regularly work a seven day week and quite often into the night. It's not unusual to be asked to work for free as well, as if our expertise counts for nothing. We do it, too. Such is our passion. But it isn't right and it isn't fair. Also, it says a lot about how many people view the arts. They are an add-on or they're a luxury. A plumber or a builder would never be asked to do something for free.<br />
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I really shall be zooming about soon. I am starting a national writing workshop tour of England next week. Once again, I am working with Creative Future - which really does respect its artists, by the way. From Newcastle and Middlesbrough to Preston, from London and Birmingham to Brighton and Plymouth, I shall be running writing workshops for writers who lack opportunities to develop and promote their work. I feel enormously privileged to be doing this. It's a wonderful thing to work so closely with people's creative impulses.<br />
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It's why I enjoy collaborative work so much. The intergenerational project with <a href="http://www.oxfordconcertparty.co.uk/index.php"><span style="color: red;"><b>Oxford Concert Party</b></span></a> in partnership with the Ashmolean Museum is starting the same week as the national touring begins. I love working with older and younger people and I greatly value working with musicians. Arne Richards and Isabel Knowland play a wonderful range of music - everything from Baroque sonatas and fugues to tangos and folk from Ireland and Eastern Europe. Put poetry and storytelling into the mix and being able to handle objects from Oxford's foremost museum and you have what is likely to be an extraordinary fusion of ideas and imagination.<br />
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There is great generosity amongst artists. It's only in the competitive world of buying and selling that back-biting starts, and even then, not everyone does it. Why squabble when the odds are stacked so heavily against you, when funding is being squeezed and cut right, left and centre? Perhaps it's understandable - like everyone fighting for the same crust of bread. But really, we should all be demanding bread for everybody - and not just artists.<br />
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<br />Pat Winslowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07212845987390338857noreply@blogger.com1