I had a great weekend at Cardiff launching CO2. The prebook was very well received and we did brisk trade. Thanks to all of you who stood there listening to me rabbit on about the world of CO2. Corvus Press have put an album of the photos taken of the wonderful costumes on their Face Book (http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001222271209) page, it’s well worth a look if you have the time. I believe there are even more photos to come.
I have been asked when CO2 will be available on line, I can say, to paraphrase the great Sam and Dave: “Hold on its coming.” I am assured it will be available in the next four weeks. I shall keep you posted.
I was at a reading at my local theatre last night and it emphasised what I had been thinking at Cardiff, namely just how creative we humans are. Over the course of two hours we were entertained by a succession of different poets, whose styles and topics covered the spectrum of human experience. In this Taunton is not unique, such things happen all over the country, all over the world.
Jaki Florek, an author from Widnes, which is where, as diligent readers of this blog may remember, I grew up, published an oral history of music making in that town Bridge Over Muddy Waters. I have just done a quick web search and it appears to be out of print, tragic, as it is such an interesting read. She also published a book about Erics, a punk club in Liverpool, where I used to go in 1976/7. These books, if you ever get to read them, underline my point, people are creative and we should celebrate that fact. How do you use your creativity?
Here is a poem I wrote for homework in my creative writing class. The brief being sculpture. I’d been rereading Puck of Pook’s Hill by Rudyard Kipling, as the title suggests. Again if you did not read this book as a child, it’s not too late.
The Song of The Bones of The Earth
I have seen them fleetingly before,
They flicker; frail skeins of spirit shape,
They return, infrequently or more,
In their swift arc to here from ape.
Dowsing, delving, dragging form below
To use for a second, then discard.
Yet in my bones a form they think they know,
Or perceive a voice from within my shard:
“Smooth me here, take this away,”
Until what obsesses becomes clear.
They strive for beauty their long short day,
And follow voices only they can hear,
Yet, when I draw my last breath,
This scrimshaw will not outlast my death.
Let me know what you make of this poem. I’d like to hear about how you express your creativity.