| July 2002 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
| July 2002 | Café Society's Poetry News Update |
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MIKE SHIELDS |
| Mike Shields was born in Jarrow, NE England, in 1938. He served an engineering apprenticeship and later worked as a Test Engineer in turbine aerodynamics and marine gearing research. From 1965, he managed technical information units in the marine, defence and automotive industries, and in 1989 became a full-time freelance writer and translator. His interest in poetry stems from childhood, and the earliest poems in this collection date from the mid-fifties. Between 1968 and 1973, he helped edit and produce Here Now, a small literary magazine published in his home town, and also wrote reviews for several other British magazines, including ORBIS, which he took over in 1980 and edited for several years. ORBIS is now regarded as one of the leading UK magazines. It passed its 100 edition in 1996. Over the years, Mike Shields has been a contributor to the Collins English Dictionary, translated major technical reference works from German and other languages, sung international folk music on BBC Radio and TV, chaired the Executive Committee of the Translators Association, edited the International Authors and Writers Who's Who and the International Who's Who of Poetry, and, through his editorship of ORBIS and its associated annual Rhyme International competition, played a leading role in the rennaissance of rhymed and formal poetry in the UK and elsewhere. His interests include music, bonsai and learning unusual languages. |
| Poetry L & T: | When and why did you first start writing poetry, Mike? |
| Mike: | The answer, if there is one, lies somewhere in parallel with the answer to the question 'why write poetry at all?', to which I contributed my milligram of theory in an article published in ORBIS No. 67 (Winter 1987). There, I hypothesised that attracting attention to onesself is a major and possibly the fundamental driving force behind all artistic endeavour: 'Most people who write poetry or compose music or indeed create anything at all have done so since childhood', I wrote, adding that perhaps we must have been the sort of children who are always saying 'Look at me!, Listen to me!'. Whether I really was such an awful child I cannot say; what I can say is that I do not recall a time when I did not write poetry. The sub-title of "Micashards, Mothwings", Poems of Forty Years, covers only those I am prepared to see published. I have in fact been writing something resembling poetry for well over half a century, now, though what little of the very earliest material has been preserved will remain in its well-deserved obscurity. Whether those poems I have decided to publish should have remained with it I leave others to judge. My apparent precocity as a poet is not as significant as it may seem. At first, poetry really was just a device for attracting attention, - something I could do that adults praised, something played like a sort of game at which one won prizes. Likewise, my interest in the classical poetry I was taught at school did not amount to more than a superficial interest in the 'story' element (Young Lochinvar, or the Ancient Mariner), or on the use of poems as memory tests (I used to amuse myself my memorising long poems in short periods and astonishing teachers). As a result, everything I wrote during those early years was completely derivative and totally unmemorable. Perhaps it is for this reason that I find myself out of sympathy with any concept of 'children's Poetry': most children write what is expected of them, and it is only when something jogs them out of this routine that they may actually produce poems of their own and become poets rather than playback machines. For me, the necessary culture shock came in the form of a fortunate combination of an inspired teacher and an adventurous change in examination syllabus. The first was Dr. Vincent Curran, to whom I owe a lifelong debt, and the second a volume entitled Contemporary Verse, introduced into the English course for the first time in 1955. Suddenly, I realised that poetry could be vital, interesting, challenging, relevant, and entirely different from the pretty (but to me then) not expecially gripping poetry I had encountered.
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| Poetry L & T: | Who are your favorite poets?
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| Mike: | Poets like Day-Lewis, Lawrence, Owen, Spender, and especially Yeats, fired my imagination and showed me poetry I had never experienced before. But I don't really believe in 'favourite poets'. |
| Poetry L & T: | On reading your book "Micashards, Mothwings" I see that you have written both rhyming poetry and free verse. Which type of poetry do you prefer, of the two? |
| Mike: | Both. Coming to terms with my father's death, with the changes in my life, and with the final break from my old home and all it meant, slowly generated Air Moving- in some ways the most important poem I had ever wtitten. It is important not so much in what it expresses, but in the fact that I found my way to express it. For the first time, I felt I was not being moved by influences, that I had no need to experiment with techniques. Like a pianist who has practised finger exercises for long enough, I had become free to express myself without worrying about technicalities. It is not that I abandoned form; on the contrary, I regard myself as a very formal poet. But I feel that I am now able to let the form grow out of the poem as it is being written, and that final shaping can be applied later, if needed at all. All the poems I have written since that time have worked in this way, and whatever poetic maturity I am ever likely to reach, I think I reached it with that poem. |
| Poetry L & T: | What inspired the title "Micashards, Mothwings"?
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| Mike: | The title comes from the end of the poem Navigator. Dreams are a source of poetry, maybe the only one, because all poems arise from the subconscious, the dark side of the mind, and Navigator tries to express this. It is difficult to write a poem about poetry, so I have done the next best thing: written a poem about dreams. Most people ride their dreams like passengers, but the poet is the person who has to record them, like a navigator. And the records are so fragmentary, it is like trying to draw charts on materials as friable and as fragile as one can imagine - the mica-shards and moth-wings of the book's title. |
| Poetry L & T: | I notice that many of your poems deal with sadness over the workings of time and change. To An Old Maid, in particular, is very poignant. I would like to know more about the person who inspired this poem...
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| Mike: | She is a real person. Let's call her Ann. I was born in the house in which I now live, and she lived a few streets away, and still does. We both attended the local Roman Catholic church and were from the same staunchly Catholic Irish background, which accounts for the sense of tightly-controlled sexuality in the poem. She was one of the most naturally beautiful women I have ever known -- as described in the poem. Once, an adjudicator, while awarding this poem first place in a competition, commented that she thought the description (stanza 2) made the woman something of an 'object'. I replied that this was precisely what the poem is about, in some respects -- the way in which the sheer sexual power of a woman's beauty can utterly overwhelm a man -- especially a young man -- rendering him speechless and almost helpless in its grip -- the so-called coup de passion. Ann is in fact more than five years older that I am, and I did speak to her -- in fact knew her quite well, but never as more than an acquaintance. Later, I married and moved away, then returned to Jarrow some years later. Ann was still there, still single, still beautiful -- but somehow already fading like a flower that had bloomed too early. It was then that I wrote the poem (aged about 30) -- of course using a considerable amount of licence in order to create a poem rathar than just a record of something (an important difference, I think!). Now that I am in my sixties, I am once again living in Jarrow and see Ann occasionally, exchanging the odd word. She is almost exactly as I foresaw her 30 years ago -- alone, wrinkled, over made-up, overdressed -- but still with the shadow of the amazing beauty that once transfixed me. A beauty that seems to have been her undoing, as physical beauty sometimes is.
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| Poetry L & T: | Are there any emotional subjects which you find difficult to deal with, in writing poetry? |
| Mike: | I think all emotional subjects are difficult to deal with. In fact, the closer you are to a subject, the less well you will write about it. I think that, just as with the poem above, you have to depersonalise a poem before you can write it properly. It has to cease to be your property, and become the common property of humanity before it can be truly successful, truly great.
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| Poetry L & T: | In your years as the editor of ORBIS magazine, did you ever find yourself feeling irritated over certain types of gaffes, or bad affectations, in the poetry submitted? If so, what were the main things you disliked? |
| Mike: | Pretentiousness. The use of antiquated language in anything but the most tightly-controlled and deliberate pastiche. Copies of other styles, ancient or modern. False emotionalism about things that the poet had clearly not experienced or known anything about except from the media (Bosnia poems, Third World starvation poems, environmental damage poems...). If I have a set of basic beliefs about poetry they are:
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| Poetry L & T: | What would your definition of very good poetry be? |
| Mike: | As above, really. Poetry in which the use of language mirrors and reinforces the emotional and intellectual content. |
| Poetry L & T: | From your bio I see that you have translated technical texts... How might you translate your poetry into another language, and still find the musicality of that language, keeping the meaning the same? |
| Mike: | I only translate into English; it is a requirement of the Institute of Translation and Interpreting, and is valid because one rarely if ever has the control on another language that one has over one's own. Poetry is impossible to translate. All that can be done is to try to create another poem in the target language that parallels the original. But it is really a new creation inspired by the original, not a recreation of it.
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| Poetry L & T: | Snippets of famous poetry are much-quoted as adages, by people who otherwise have little interest in poetry. What would you like to see happen, to generate more interest in poetry from people other than simply those who write poetry themselves? |
| Mike: | Most people have had a go at poetry at some time or another -- but most people have no idea of what poetry is about, and I don't think that will change. Poetry comes from inside a person and cannot be planted where it has not grown naturally. It's a bit like singing -- you can train a natural singer to sing better, but you cannot make a singer out of a person who has no natural voice. That said, I am sure more people could obtain enjoyment and inspiration from reading poetry, so that initiatives like poems on the undergound/buses, or national/local poetry days, cannot fail to help. |
| Poetry L & T: | I like the dark irony of The Man Who Joked With Death. Did someone in particular inspire this poem, or is he a fictitious character? |
| Mike: | Again, 'Jim' was a real person, an undertaker with an incredible sense of humour. He also came from the same Irish Catholic background that I did, and could actually make funerals enjoyable -- as I recall on several occasions myself. Of course the Irish are famous for 'wakes' which often become uproarious parties (one of Jim's jokes: Man pokes head in door at wake 'Who's dead, then?' Passing drunk 'I don't know at all. I think it's him in the coffin'). He was also a nice guy to know, a family man, good company to have a drink with (He used to come into the lounge of the local Catholic club, where there was a conspicuous sign forbidding working clothing, and ask it it was OK because he was wearing his black suit and tails!). We Catholics joked with death, and even though I am no longer a Catholic, death holds no terrors for me. Jim exemplified this. |
| Poetry L & T: | Finally Mike, what advice would you give to poets wishing to improve their writing style enough to be accepted by a discerning poetry magazine such as ORBIS? |
| Mike: | Read, read, read! Read any and all good poetry, read especially poetry that you do not initially 'like'. Try to learn what it is that you 'like' and 'dislike' about poetry, then ask yourself why, and whether your likes and dislikes are relevant. Subscribe to a range of poetry magazines, so that you get an idea of what is being done at the moment. Avoid having a 'football supporter' mentality about types of poetry, or individual poets. And submit to magazines that publish the sort of poetry you think you can write. |
| Poetry L & T: | Thank you for the interview, Mike. |
| Mike: | Thanks for your interest. |
| Dear Poets, Welcome to the July 2002 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not poetrylifeandtimes.com, click here).
This issue features an interview with Mike Shields, a published UK poet who has editorship of ORBIS magazine and work on the Collins English Dictionary among his many achievements.
Featured Poets this month include Richard Zola, Ian Thorpe, The Quill, Richard Vallance and Jan Sand.
For the July 2002 Vallance Review, Richard Vallance has decided to review one of my sonnets - Pianissimo. He is also featuring some of my work in the Summer issue of Sonnetto Poesia.
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Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Announcements are always welcome (brief if possible), you can also promote poetry books here.
Poetry submissions should be in plain text in the body of an email, with a small jpeg author picture attached, also a bio, with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links. This increases the chance of inclusion, especially for late submissions. Pictures are best at a maximum of 520 pixels across, otherwise they take ages to arrive by email, especially in bitmap or TIFF format. Further submission guidelines are available on request, or click the submissions link on our main page.
Best Regards, |
Richard Vallance reviews sonnets, both classic and modern.
Featured Poets this month include Richard Zola, Ian Thorpe, The Quill, Richard Vallance and Jan Sand. Many thanks to all contributors.
Click title below for this month's Vallance Review feature
Richard Zola is UK based... an interview with him conducted by distinguished Australian poet and novelist Billy Marshall Stoneking can be found at http://www.cjb.net. Richard's work has appeared in many ezines including:
zola's website: http://www.richardzola.co.uk
earlier
now she sits with 2 others
her legs stretched
beyond her feet
she notices the laces are worn
later
she'll buy new laces tomorrow
the woman reading
she'll walk home
she stands
her steps are quick
7 geese walk along the edge of the lake
a feathered body floats
she drinks from a blue cup
steam from a kettle
cup to mouth
dust light dark
she wonders if dust matters
a blue cup on a blue saucer
bracelets around her wrists
at 12pm
she wants to give him flowers
she places the cup in the saucer
she takes the cup the saucer
a circle of water
when she returns
on a polished table:
the objects on the table
beneath the table
the air holds the aroma
soon she'll walk into town
she stands into her shoes
leaves the apartment
stays out
when she returns
says:
7am:
the wind chime:
she says:
a dog
she's alone in the kitchen
the chime
she'd worn her polka dot shirt
figures stood
19 chimes hanging
near the river
did she sleep
in the kitchen
she'd worked a hook
it rests against wood
she rests against wood
her head on the table
the sky is white
curves and circles
the man selling melons
both feet are clean
she gives him blue money
covers his face
next day
both boots are clean
she asks
he lifts a cloth
she gives him blue money
he hollows a melon
she doesn't hear what he says
his voice being muffled
RICHARD ZOLA
she'd have preferred mackerel
but they didn't look that fresh
© Richard Zola
standing behind a carpenter
in the market
(while inspecting fish)
she'd heard his spermatozoa
discussing her hat
and the existence of tulips
on a bench
1 female reading
she leans looks -
- 1 male sleeping
brown suit
no spectacles
their weight on her heels
she watches
the laces of her shoes
coiling in through
out of 16 black rings
a swan
holds the head of a mallard
beneath the surface
of the ornamental lake
some of the rings
they're threaded through
loose
she'll cook the fish
she's bought
push the table
near to the window
eat from the yellow plate
wear other shoes
to walk to the shop
if she wears these
ones both laces may snap
when tied
the man sleeping
have gone
past the space
where a house used to be
take the bus next time
sit near the driver
have the right amount of money ready
straightens her skirt
adjusts her hat
leaves her coat unbuttoned
she's left nothing behind
on under the bench
without sound on grass
circles radiating
no no hole in the table or even a scratch
© Richard Zola
her mouth unpainted
bracelets fallen
half way
to the bend in her arm
forms domes
on the wall
water runs onto tile
drips
from the spout of the kettle
into blue flame
becoming orange yellow
she carries a saxophone
through cobbled streets
throws it from a cliff:
a parachute opens
the instrument stands upright on sand
silk covering
on the curtains near the rail
a spoon
held between thumb and finger
taps against porcelain
she lifts the cup
unlocks the door of a patisserie
raises the blinds
greets the baker
standing in the heat of the ovens
fills shelves with bread
pastries
the fisherman
black curls beneath his cap
arrives
leans his bicycle
against the window
he hands her paper
she returns coins bread
their hands touch
he takes two fish
from the bag
hanging from his shoulder:
their blood on the counter
spells out her name
the spoon in the cup
climbs inside the cup
cleans the rings around the bowl
straightens her skirt
in the shine of the spoon
to the sink
her keys from the yellow vase
near the window
takes the kettle from the stove
switches the blue flame off
leaves the apartment
where the saucer had been
sinks
through the polished wood
of the table
onto the grass mat
where her feet had been
the circle of water
on the grass mat
will be dry
every thursday yes if no-one comes to visit
© Richard Zola
a pair of spectacles
silver rimmed open
a photographn of faces
dead before she was born
a small spoon inverted
a salt cellar
a supermarket glass:
leaves embossed.
a stone
mostly blue
ringed with grey
two domes of water
joined
by the movement of a finger
lit from the left
through cleaned glass
arranged this way
on thursdays
her feet slip in and out
of her red shoes
of citrus
across the low bridge
where the river curves
she'll glance at the museum
where one sunday afternoon
she left her bracelet
on the wrist of a statue
for an hour
she sits at the table
removes her shoes
examines doesn't touch
the objects
nothing has changed
wipes the water away
with a cloth
some have steel tubes and dyed feathers
as well as bells
© Richard Zola
a yellow sky
through glass
and black branches
4 steel tubes 5 bells
linked by chains
hanging from a hook
away from the window
close to the door
i bought that those
i bought those wind chimes
that wind chime
from the market on manchester street
may have lifted its head
at her words
a sleeping cat
shifted position:
had hung from the metal support
of a blue white
striped awning
among others
tubes tied
on a day without wind
blue leather jacket
and the turquoise skirt
her sister had forgotten
on coloured rectangles of stone
some trying on shoes
a hat
this one tied
she handed paper to flesh
put the chime in her bag
she sat in high grass
read a letter she'd found
she says:
did i sleep
she'd untied the chime
held it at arm's length
tapped the tubes bells
with 3 fingers simultaneously
then with 3 fingers
consecutively
into the frame of the door
hung the chime
tapped the tubes bells
supported by her arms
when she raises her head
on the skin of her face
one of those yellow ones... not a watermelon
© Richard Zola
stares at her bare feet
their imprints in snow
he returns silver
and a yellow fruit
with the papier mache
head of a horse
he stares at her new boots
their imprints in the snow
to buy the spice
where the melon had been
reveals a melon
in a row of melons
places it over his head
 Now, with a multi media studio in the spare bedroom and with the aid of musicians from the band Realistic Hair, actors from an amateur drama group and students from the local college media department he is developing a collection of multi media pieces themed on the symbolism of the Tarot deck Major Arcana and provisionally called Arcane Encounters. Ian says he is not an adept with the Tarot and has never even had a personal reading done for him but is interested in the things the Arcana represent, their links to the single source of all mythologies and the way they interact in our lives. Arcane Encounters will be published by Kedco Artist Profile Press later in the year. Alternatively visit Ian's homepage http://ianthorpe.airtime.co.uk to keep up with progress on the project and learn about the misadventures that will inevitably befall the team.
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WE MADE LOVE © Ian Thorpe, 2001 We Made Love I look into your eyes, still soft But heavy with the weight of years And recall days not long ago When our bodies roared With impetuous passion
And we made love
We made love
We made love
We made love
We made love
We made love
Now (*The italics indicate a line from the song "Homeward Bound" by Simon and Garfunkel)
Nothing is significant at street level in New York where the giants look down on an electric menagerie. I offered my lust in Times Square she brought her loneliness. We traded in a Market Place swapping tarnished dream for faded hope jostling with the other traders each of whom was looking for a profit on their deal and all prepared to give a little less than they hoped for in return. New York brings everything down to commerce and takes its cut of every deal. Nobody can see they have Much more to offer And so much more to gain If they will give rather than trade. No bargains to be had, just unfulfilled promises. Fumbling apologies In the anti - climax. Telephone numbers scrawled on matchbooks race each other in rain filled gutters as last night's Valentios slink like Pariahs in morning alleyways. We cut the deal, she had arms to lift her temporarily I satisfied an appetite hot - dogs cannot feed, but New York fed on both of us; a vampire city it bled dry our newborn love.
She stands and waits for me, prepared by her attendants, calm eyes anticipating; only a little shudder as I near reveals her excitement. I touch her neck, whisper soft words, caress her shoulders then mount, with a thrust of my hips I urge her, she responds and we move together, gently, slowly, starting our journey. As one we adjust, each sensing the other's wish, raising the rhythm as we climb above these levels to more exalted planes where sense and spirit rule. Free now from blacktop tyrranny and impatient we increase the tempo nerves sing, muscles move in unison; one single beast, we reach the summit. I clench my thighs around her, the broad back tenses under me, bridle slackens, heels nudge she gathers herself and surges, Epona, Horse goddess of this land, teeth bared, mane and tail streaming my mare outruns the rising sun, chasing twilight to pursue dawn beyond the darkness and eternal sea. But in these hills there is only so far we can run before a fence, a road, and we have gone with the spirits for only a moment before I have to check slow her to a trot and find the path that leads back to our world. As we leave the height and start descending we both look back, she longing for the freedom of this unbroken moor, me hearing echoes of forgotten wisdom in the cry of plover and moorcock and somehow feeling in the the wind a soft pull at my ancestral soul.
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 THE QUILL (ROGER C. WORLEY) Published - Stand A Alone, Scroll Artist Magazine .. E_Zine - Twice winner at PoetryDownUnder - Two winner at Point of life - Two winner at Poetic Links - Published around the world on the net. From Alaska to Belgium.
The Quill runs these websites for poets: Poet's note - "I am a poet who writes whatever happens to come into the gray matter... I believe in making the reader smile. There is to much pain and suffering in the world. I have been given a Nick name 'The Master Quill guru of the twisted tales.' Once you read my writings you shall know why..."
NOTE:
List your site ..at | GREAT GRAMD-MA'S REALITY © The Quill 2002 |
Poetry Life & Times is a nominating site for The Poet's Hall of Fame. Nominations are according to poetic merit and sometimes also for services to poetry in general.
Nomination from the June 2002 issue:
Summer Breeze*
Congratulations!
*Poet and editor of Moongate at artvilla.com, she has published the work of many new poets.
*NEW* Competition from the Poets' Porch:
Click logo for details...
ANOTHER WOMAN WHO LOOKS LIKE ME
published by Black Sparrow Press. 
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Vous pouvez enfin lire le volume 1, numéro 2, de l'e-zine canadien,
SONNETTO POESIA
- celui de l'été, 2002. Dans ce numéro, l'écrivaine en vedette,
c'est Sara Russell, rédactrice de l'e-zine anglais, Poetry Life and Times
chez le lien suivant :
SONNETTO POESIA
Dans le numéro actuel, on trouve aussi des sonnets par
Brian Whatcott ( des États Unis ), de « la pomme de terre terrible »
( Royaume Uni ) et de Richard Vallance, le rédacteur ( Canada ). Les sonnets
sont classés de façon thématique. On peut lire tranquillement des sonnets
estivaux, des sonnets portant sur le sujet universel de l'Amour, sous la
rubrique, "Love's Labour lost?" ( soit, « À la recherche de l'Amour
perdu? » ), et si vous voulez bien, même des sonnets bizarres de
« Commediadel Arte » ! Alors, c'est bien rigolo, n'est-ce pas? Et bien!
Qu'attendez-vous? - l'apocalypse? Allez-y tout de suite!
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The Summer, 2002 issue (Vol. 1, no. 2) of:
SONNETTO POESIA
- which features the sonneteer, Sara Russell, the Editor
of the UK E-Zine, Poetry Life and Times, is now on the WEB here: SONNETTO POESIA
Our Summer issue also features sonnets by Brian Whatcott (USA),
the Potato Tarquin of Terror (UK) and Richard Vallance, Editor (Canada).
The current issue arranges sonnets thematically. You may read at your
leisure: Summer's sonnets, "Love's Labour Lost?" sonnets and even Commedia
del Arte ones! Sounds like great fun, and it is! OK, so what are you
waiting for? - the end of the world?
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Q U I C K I E S - a new e-book of erotic/humorous stories for women |
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Poetry Life and Times is listed in Poetry Who's Who
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The Poet's Porch Anthology July 2002
Dreamland 200 pages
Poets of The Poet's Porch, Guest Poets and Resident poets
Order NOW !
Make check or postal money order payable to
Poets Porch - Address below. |
Val Magnuson Galactic Poet Award
OUT NOW MILLENNIUM DAWN anthology, by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press. An exciting collection of award-winning poetry and short stories. Enquiries to Elaine Davis at kedco-ap@juno.com
Also - Contributors Wanted for: CRYSTAL DAWN
... A new forthcoming anthology from Kedco.
Click Here for details.
THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #24 - a new adventure begins. Once again, Reginald Rat has escaped from the cartoon completely! He could be anywhere on this page, doing anything. If you can find him, you win a prize!
The Perils of Norris started in August 2000. To catch up on past episodes, click the links below, then your browser's Back button to return.
Email sararuss.geo@yahoo.com and say where he is and what he is doing. First correct answer wins prizes such as Poetry Life & Times pens and notebooks.
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Mail me on: sararuss.geo@yahoo.com
with poems, letters or poetry news,
by 22nd July (latest) for the August issue.
