When opportunity knocks it's time to be out, open and occupied

I've been away. I don't know where I've been so it's probably best not to ask me. There aren't any photos to restore the memories. I've been in rather than out. Closed rather than open. Vacant instead of occupied.

But that's all about to change. Last Saturday I was in Bewdley for a slice of 'Poetry, Performance and Pizazz' with two rather wonderful performance poets - Emma Purshouse and Heather Wastie of Brewers' Troupe - and other talented workshop participants. And I realised the poet, performer, and perhaps more importantly, the person in me could be reawakened.

So tomorrow I'll be in Bewdley again, having been given the opportunity to read a couple of poems to folks in the streets alongside Emma. This is through the relationship Brewers' Troupe has formed with Bewdley Open Studios. More details on this weekend's readings can be found here.

So I'm back. And next time I'm away I may actually know where I am. Perhaps even where I'm going. First destination: Bewdley.

Find me at Womb Poetry

The summer/fall 2007 "Equinox" issue of Womb went live yesterday, and my multimedia visual, voice, and textual poem sequence Postcard Stream is published there.

Check out all the contributors and view my work by clicking on my name at Womb Poetry.



I'd love to hear your thoughts, impressions, comments. It's an interactive piece, so turn up your computer speakers and be prepared to move that mouse.

I say more about Postcard Stream here.

My not-so-hidden adventures

Did I forget to tell you more about my American adventures? I think I did. Well, there are plenty of photos over at the Woman-Stirred August 2007 archives.

You can also find videos of Julie R. Enszer and Merry Gangemi reading at Tea & Poetry in the September 2007 archives. I have to say that because here we are in the final week of September already, and soon September will slip away because the nights are drawing in, and ... ok, ok, enough of that!

Poetry Pleasures

Here is some of what I got up to on my recent visit to the US: reading at the Tea & Poetry event in East Hardwick, Vermont. That's Merry Gangemi giving me a warm welcome. We were to read in the garden at Perennial Pleasures, but it was cold outside that particular afternoon.

The whole trip was fantastic.

I'm treating this piece of video as a test. I hope more will follow, as well as more detail of my adventures.

Travels of a Queer Poet

Yes - that's me! I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm travelling to the States to read poetry and meet two of my Woman-Stirred friends in person for the very first time. I'm sure you've heard me talk about them before! So that really means I'm not here at all. In fact I'm over there - being queer, and friendly, and a poet. Or at least I will be very soon. If you see what I mean.

Here's what's going on. If you're in the Vermont vicinity, please come along and support us. I'm the one with the English accent.


BLACK SHEEP BOOKS presents:

Three Queer Poets:
Readings by Julie R. Enszer, Merry Gangemi, and Nicki Hastie

Tuesday, August 14 at 7:00 p.m.
at 4 Langdon Street, Montpelier, VT

Julie R. Enszer, a Maryland-based writer and lesbian activist, is published in "Iris: A Journal about Women," "Room of One's Own," "Long Shot," the "Jewish Women's Literary Annual," and the "Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly." Her book, "Homesteading: Essays on Life, Death, Sex, and Liberation," is forthcoming in winter 2008. For more on Julie, see http://www.JulieREnszer.com.

Merry Gangemi lives in Woodbury, VT, and is the host of Woman-Stirred Radio, a weekly queer cultural journal on WGDR 91.1 fm. Her work is published in the "Paterson Literary Review," "Journal of NJ Poets," "Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly," the "Harrington Lesbian Literary Review," "Vermont Woman," and the "Hardwick Gazette." She produces the annual Tea & Poetry series, a Vermont literary festival now in its sixth year. For more on Merry, see http://www.merrygangemi.org.

Nicki Hastie lives in Nottingham, England. She is a founding member of the Woman-Stirred blog. Her work is published in "Chroma," "Diva," "Trouble & Strife," and also in critical anthologies relating to women's health, coming out stories, lesbian fiction, and representations of lesbians in popular culture. For more on Nicki, see http://www.nickihastie.demon.co.uk.

* * *

Black Sheep Books, a community space and bookstore in Montpelier, Vermont, offers affordable radical and scholarly books, and hosts educational events on cultural and political topics. As an all-volunteer project, we are operated by a five-member collective hand in hand with a group of dedicated volunteers. Our principle focus is to provide access to anti-authoritarian Left ideas in a way that promotes intellectual debate and challenges today’s hegemonic culture. Together with horizontalist social movements and political projects, bookstores, infoshops, and publishers, Black Sheep Books works toward an egalitarian, ecological, and nonhierarchical society.

Black Sheep Books
4 Langdon Street, Montpelier, Vermont
www.blacksheepbooks.org / 802-225-8906
Hours: Tues-Sat 11-6, Sun 11-5, Mon closed



And then, on Saturday 18 August, what better than Tea and Poetry?

You really won't want to miss us in the gardens of Perennial Pleasures for this Vermont literary festival, now in its sixth year thanks to the organisational skills and poetic-mindedness of Merry Gangemi. Voluntary donations benefit the AFSC VT office youth outreach and education program.

Readings are at 1pm and 3pm on both Saturday and Sunday. Julie, Merry, and I will be reading on Saturday at 3pm. Don't forget to bring a lawn chair!

Window seat in standard class

I was in London today. Getting there by train, I had these thoughts.

Not Blue

The pen is black.
If blue I might
have needed to stop
in order to decide
whether to continue.
I could have been
wrongly poised,
paper averse.
For now,
the day is saved.


London-bound

Windows are for looking out and through,
but harsh train lights present my twin,
hovering over opposite tracks.
It's impossible not to see -
half-turned in acknowledgement -
dark circles under eyes,
pores like newsprint dots.
I would not choose this early start.
Beyond me sheep have woken to rain,
resisting dampness beneath railroad arches.
Creatures waiting to emerge from shadows.


Turn-Ups

Yesterday I caught a leaf
in my trouser turn-up.
Was it there all afternoon?
Or did it drop later with the rain?
Carried home in a thoughtful haze,
showing me how to attend to the world.
I scooped it out, a yellow veined disc,
embarrassed what else might have
been not-quite-concealed as we talked.
Crumbs from my lunchtime sandwich?
A crisp from the lunchtime before?
Once I found a paperclip.
I think I can be forgiven one small leaf.
Leaves will fall where they please.

I'm a Poet

I took the "If You Were a Poet..." quiz on gURL.com
		I am... Sapphire Do you tell it like it is, even if "it" ain't pretty? Then Sapphire, (aka Ramona Lofton) may be your poetic predecessor. Sapphire is a jewel of a poet, but you won't find any precious language in her books. Read more... Which poet are you?

Stories of Origins

I just wanted to say that the memory project is continuing, but I've been going a little further back than usual recently as part of a discussion with my Woman-Stirred colleagues. So I'm going to reproduce here what I had to say over there on the origins of a writer.

***

I don't know what light my early poems and drawings might shed on the woman and poet I am now, but I know I'm very glad that I've kept them. The Woman-Stirred women have been discussing our earlier lives this week, and wondering why we choose to share certain stories and images with each other. Are we simply looking to build connection, and sharing whatever aims to do that best? Or are we deliberately constructing a particular image, a preferred image for all the others to see?

I wanted to be a writer as young as age seven, probably a lot earlier. In fact, my publishing ambitions may have their origins in a lecture Miss Lambert gave my first year infant class when I was still a small four-year old. A lecture? To four year olds? It had that effect on me, certainly. It was a stern and solemn lecture. In other words, a telling off. She told the class that we should all be ashamed of ourselves, for not one of us would be appearing in the school magazine that year.

This was an important lesson. It may have been my first real and personal understanding of injustice. I knew I had worked very hard in my first term, and this news hit me hard. I remember feeling hot and bothered and almost incapable of keeping still as I sat on the floor with legs crossed, struggling to remain silent. Perhaps it was not our efforts but our age that was against us?

In that moment, as Miss Lambert made me feel shame, I was determined never to find myself in this position again, not if I could help it. I never again wanted to have that feeling of underachievement. And that placed a whole new burden on me for the rest of my schooldays. I would work harder and harder, until my work was acknowledged. Except working harder and harder soon became the norm everyone expected from me.

This is a long preamble to a couple of poems I wrote as a seven or eight year old. I don't know what these poems have to tell the world now. Cartoons are good, perhaps. They fire the imagination; just don't watch too many. Be sure to maintain a balance and keep an eye on the natural world also. I don't know. Perhaps these poems say: never underestimate a child.

Tom and Jerry

Tom and Jerry
Were having a tug of war with a berry.
Jerry went ouch,
And Tom went eugh.
It splattered on the floor,
And Tom's bottom became sore.
Tom ran after Jerry,
Jerry hid in a bottle of sherry.
Tom drank the sherry,
And there was Jerry.
Jerry ran across the lawn,
And landed in a prawn.
Tom ate the prawn,
His tail felt like it had been sawn.
He spat Jerry out,
And Jerry looked about.
Tom turned red
And went to bed.

Birds

Birds are singing,
Birds are swinging.
They build a nest
Away in the West.
The babys are squeaking and cheaping,
I can hear a bird weeping.
We have got twenty three budgirigars,
In budgirigars there is two r's.

© Nicki Hastie the Younger, 1976/1977

Perhaps I should be grateful to Miss Lambert. Did her words actually fire my desire and passion to write? Just look at those red teacher ticks I was getting for my drawings by age seven!

Lost and Found

Given the subject of my earlier post on the politics and significance of Coming Out, I think some entries from my twenty-year-old diary should be allowed to stand alone. I'll begin with an early poem which is stepping out of the closet (the closed pages of a diary) for the very first time today.

September 6th 1986

I Did Not Want to Lose You

"I did not want to lose you."
Said a thousand times in a lifetime
to a thousand different lives.
All of them lost.
No longer mine, nor were they ever;
free to walk out and slam the door in my face.
But memories don't fade.
Occasionally the door moves ajar,
the movement of a silent puff of wind –
or is it my sigh?
And I see them standing there
in a crowd of faces of which I know none.
Moved on to a new playground
as mine has rusted over with tears.
Lost from touch, but touchingly stored,
because I did not want to lose you.


September 8th 1986

Oh, I'm so glad to be back at College. I am so happy in having seen R and in spending nearly all of the day in her company. I am incredibly happy, lively and interested when in her company. I love her; how I love her. We are good friends and nothing more, but I love just being with her, talking to her, laughing with her. She means a great deal to me. When at College there isn't so much time in which to worry and get depressed - and this is good for me. I don't have to sit and worry about what a problem being a lesbian can be, although some of my fears are lived out at College.

Sitting in the Common Room at dinner-time, all the other girls can do is sit and eye up the new first-year boys and talk really suggestively to each other about the males they sight. That's all they did today - any new male that appeared they rushed to stare at him in order to rate his dress sense and looks and to discuss how good he would be in bed. Of course I don't play a part in this conversation - I just laugh at their behaviour and refuse to mind that I play no part - but, it is quite upsetting, I must admit. It does make you realise that you're different - it's not other people who make you an outsider, it's your own thoughts. I get no enjoyment from oggling the boys. There's no point in forcing myself - I refuse to live out a pretence.

It's true what one woman said on the lesbian programme I watched - nearly all the conversation of friends is to do with some aspect of sexuality - but homosexuality is different - rather a taboo subject. It is okay to talk for hours and hours about boy/girl relationships but I am forced to keep silent about my sexuality.

R doesn't come into the Common Room. I rather wish that she did because I would sit with her, and I wouldn't mind what she did or said. It wouldn't bother me because I love her and I know I have her friendship. Love does make a great deal of difference - it is extremely important - and so very, very strong.

I was standing close to R at one point today and as she moved her breasts rubbed against my arm. I was very aware of this fact, and my thought at the time was: does she know she's doing this? I nearly allowed myself to believe that she had rubbed against me purposely because she stayed close for quite a number of seconds and made no movement to change position. I suppose, though, that she didn't notice or thought nothing of this happening because she has no thought of me sexually - whereas I am obviously going to be extremely aware of her and her body. It's sad, really, to think of the frustrations between people and the secrets that they keep.

I had thought that I might be afraid to touch R because of how I feel about her, but I am so glad that this is not the case. I have no anxiety, no nerves in touching her impulsively in order to capture her attention. This fact is a great relief to me because it shows that I act naturally with her - something which I must do. And, oh how naturally do I act! - I am so comfortable with R, so much at ease - so much in need of her being with me.

Sand! In Brighton?

You can find the most ordinary substances in the most unexpected places. Brighton is renowned for its pebbles, so there's a wonderful irony in staging the world's largest sand sculpture festival in a beach resort which boasts no sand. The sand was imported from Holland. Holland is a little closer than Egypt and, apparently, has exactly the right kind of river sand for building tall sculptures.

I didn't even know the festival was on, so it was a treat to find ourselves in Brighton in time to take it in. I love sand but Brighton wouldn't be Brighton without its pebbly beach. I'm happy with a pebble in hand, although it was Andrea who attempted the stone-skimming into the sea. I sat and watched. Pebbles mould themselves very well to a bottom and are surprisingly comfortable. Unlike sand, pebbles aren't that adept at creeping into every kind of crease and crevice; they find it hard to be inconspicuous. Don't knock a pebble, you'll likely come off worse.

Ok - so enough about pebbles and what about the lesbian gaze? I thought there might be interest in that topic. I've prepared a sonnet.


Beach Front

I’m back from Brighton where the pebbles rush
to greet the sea with tuneful chattering.
As water softens rugged stone, a hush
swells from their tranquil sighs, imagining
a future forming sand. A train declares
the journey to Black Rock. This faster route
to sandy parts erases time and bears
us to Egyptian feast - an absolute
array of hieroglyphics, pyramids
and mythic beasts. I build a fantasy
of girls at play on Sussex beach, eyelids
held low against the glare, their gaze on me,
or mine on them. In strong light who can tell?
A glimpse of breast? I bend to take a shell.

© 2005 Nicki Hastie


The weather was fantastic, the long shorts enjoyed their outing, and these breasts and that cheeky tongue deserved more than a second glance.

Gay Yet Wistful

After looking for a poem last night (indirectly reminded of it by one of the other writers on the course), I now have a copy of Verse and Worse: A Private Collection by Arnold Silcock sitting next to me. It's unfair to put books away once they're off the shelves. They need to lie around and be contemplated for a while, especially if they haven't been taken from the shelves for some time.

The poem wasn't in there, but there are some amazing chapter headings that you could probably only find in an anthology first published in 1952. These days, given such titles, you'd expect a very different collection of verse. I certainly would.

Grave Shades from the Churchyard Gaze On Gay Graves that the Churchyard Shades

This reminds me of my trip to Père Lachaise Cemetery (Cimetière du Père Lachaise) in Paris in 1991, particularly searching for the graves of Gertrude Stein, Alice B Toklas and Oscar Wilde. Interestingly, Alice B Toklas is not considered 'famous' enough to be listed on the virtual celebrity grave tour. Trust me, her grave is next to Stein's. I couldn't find a photo I'd taken of the graves, but here's one of me in Paris on the day in question, suitably dressed for a day of grave-searching.

Gay Yet Wistful

Plenty of reasons to be Gay Yet Wistful, not only where love is unrequited. [Pause here: can't you hear the extended GYW sigh?] I can really picture this working as an American bumpersticker, complete with rainbow flag.

Queer People - He on Him and Her: She on Her and Him In Jingle, Verse and Prayer, or Epitaph and Hymn

Very queer indeed.

Then, in the chapter called Old School Books, you'll find 'Personal Hygiene for Pussies'. Not surprisingly, penned by Anon.

My old school books were never like this. But then again, yes, they probably were. Some would say this was the time when language was innocent, before all those 'queer people' ruined such beautiful words as 'gay'. And before Mrs Slocombe discovered her pussy, no doubt. Yeah, right! At least Arnold sent his 'private collection' out into the world.

Season of Calm

We've just been out and bought a yucca plant to fill a gap on the living room windowsill that isn't taken up with the cats and their cushions. It's sitting in a bright new orange pot which works beautifully with the heritage green and orange colour scheme in this room.

I like yuccas. I've just realised that yucca is the state flower of New Mexico, which is interesting as I was revisiting memories of a road trip through Arizona, New Mexico and part of Texas only yesterday. I'm drawn to the desert landscapes of southwest America. I've decided I need more red rocks in my life. My computer desktop image is a photo I took at the Grand Canyon. It calms me. At work I have a photo of the Mediterranean Sea. Perhaps I should switch to red rocks there, too, in order to induce some extra calm in that environment.

I'm seeing tomorrow as the start of something new, so perhaps today is also a significant day, standing on the threshold. What am I starting? What is changing? It would be good to think it's the start of a long, hot summer. Maybe it will be, but I can't do much to influence that, other than not touching my rain stick for the next few months. Calm does seem to be the theme of the day. A new worker starts in our team tomorrow, someone I directly manage, and I think this can only help me get myself and various stresses into perspective. If I can't be calm for my benefit, I can for another. Giving her a positive introduction and induction becomes my priority.

Tomorrow I also start a 9-week writing course with the trAce Online Writing School. It's called 'Season of Inspiration' and that sounds good in itself. If I achieve my new aura of calmness that's not to say I can't also be inspired and passionate in my writing life. The great thing is that I begin this course already fired up and inspired. I've been writing more poetry than I have for a very long time, so although the course isn't about writing to any set genre, I think I've rediscovered my preferred form.

I've worked with the tutors - Sharon Rundle and Helen Whitehead - before and I'm looking forward to the experiences that will be shared in the next few weeks. I know how good freewriting and journalling feels and I don't do enough of it. I'm seeking to discipline my writing habits, and then, if the mood takes me, I can enjoy the pleasures of breaking out!

Wear with Pride

This week upon my wrist I wear a band.
It says end homophobia. It’s pink
and made from silicone - designed to stand
hard knocks, demand attention, make you think.
I’m waiting for the first engaged response,
for someone who will read the message whole,
not those who, from embarrassment, ensconce
themselves in ignorance. It could cajole
another to come out, to know they aren’t
alone; perhaps encourage others to
condemn discrimination, so they can’t
refuse to bid such prejudice adieu.
Ironic, then, I don’t wear everywhere,
in case the homophobes are waiting there.

Today's eclectic mix

I've been away for over a week. It's ok, I have been writing - just not here. I even had an afternoon in the sun on Sunday. Ironically, because I was working. The university had a marquee at a local agricultural show. The giant rabbits were our most popular exhibit. Best not to enquire further on that one. I did offer to dress up as a giant rabbit but it's better to have the real thing. Anyway, it really was sunny on Sunday afternoon so it would have been far too hot in a rabbit suit. Dressing up as a rabbit is possibly something I'll never add to my list of having dressed up as Wallace (of Gromit fame), a teddy bear and Penelope Pitstop (all in the name of serious work, of course).

I've started writing sonnets. Someone out there knows why. I've also started doing Su Doku puzzles. I'm pretty sure these two facts aren't related, although both activities require counting. Su Doku up to nine, and sonnets up to ten syllables in iambic pentameter. There's rhythm and rhyme in there somewhere. I'm aware there's far more to the sonnet form than counting. Su Doku style puzzles are a version of the logic puzzle, using process of elimination, 'if not this, that' techniques. I've always been quite fond of logic puzzles - satisfying rows of ticks and crosses and a definite result. There's a satisfying form to the sonnet, I'm discovering, and that can bring clarity, too.

With all these new experiences, it's quite possible I'm strengthening the connections between my brain cells. The Spanish course has finished now so I do need to maintain the learning experience. I find if you keep learning the world slows down a little bit. Days seem to last longer when you're busy enjoying new things. More gets crammed in rather than the usual routine. It's easy to overlook routine and it can feel like the days have gone by in a blur without anything of note happening. On the other hand, it could just be short term memory loss. Another good reason to keep learning.

I'm limbering up for the Eurovision Song Contest final on Saturday (tonight's the semi-final). I will need my best counting skills to join in with the scoring. The Eurovision Song Contest is a significant occasion in the calendar for me. This year is the 50th contest. It's not really a song contest at all. It's cultural camp delight - and highly political.