Field of Fantasy

Sunday 24th January 2010 at 8.00
The Winchester, Poole Hill, Bournemouth, BH2 5PW

Beat Poetry and Jazz Ranting by Peter John Cooper with music by Matt Wilkinson.
"A brilliant poet delivering his poems with tremendous energy"
"...Manic and Majestic"

Featuring the Big Big Number "Field of Fantasy" with the MUD chorus.
Field of Fantasy
“WOW !!!

It was SOMETHING yesterday!

GREAT STUFF

Thank you”

Svetlana (Poet)

From audience feedback forms at previous performances:

.......What did you like best about the work?.....

“Experimental. Confidence of topic – MUD story by Peter Cooper & guitar”.
“Mud, bass ‘beat poet’ grooves”
“The poetry addressed vital issues”
“A brilliant poet delivering his poems with tremendous energy, great backing”
“Mud”
“Never seen anything like it before”
“All of it”
“Peter Cooper’s delivery & subjects – excellent, come back to Bridport!”
“Intriguing how it worked. Liked music with poems”
“Confident, humour, variety of rhythm. Music supported very well”

.......What could be improved?....

“Nothing”
“Hard to imagine”

Little Arthur's History of England

Little Arthur’s History of England

is the name of a popular history from the Victorian Era written by Lady Maria Callcott. Touchingly, it became a favourite of the young men in the trenches of the Great War.


The Play
Little Arthur gazes from his nursery window trying to make sense of the mad world of the grown ups beyond
“Little Arthur’s History of England” starring Trisaha Lewis is a one woman play about the life of a Nanny and her charge in the nursery of a big house during the days and nights of September 1939. Nanny Cummins is more than a little eccentric and is definitely larger than life. During the course of the play we learn of Nanny’s life, disappointments and attitudes to the looming conflict as she reads from the big history book that she keeps on the nursery shelf. From time to time she fortifies herself with a swig from her special medicine bottle that she keeps hidden under her pillow. In the end Nanny knows she cannot keep the truth from her little Arthur and in a dramatic climax we come to understand the secret that Nanny herself has kept hidden all these years...
When it was first performed in Oxford, The Oxford Mail said it was an “An astonishing piece infused with warmth and melancholy”




Trisha Lewis
Trisha is a Bournemouth based actress with an enormous range of professional work to her credit. Trisha is extremely well known for her work in Dorset and the South and over the years has specialised in single-handed portrayals of strong and quirky women such as Joyce Grenfell , Mary Woolstonecraft and Virgina Woolfe.
Reviews of Trisha’s work:
"..Inspirational solo performance..”
“…confident and beautiful acting…”
( Hampshire Chronicle)
“….utterly unforgettable”
(Chester Chronicle)


Spyway Projects(http://www.spyway.co.uk/) is a Dorset based theatre company bringing together writer and director Peter John Cooper, designer Annette Sumption and many other professional musicians, designers and performers. Over the past seventeen years they have produced shows as varied as the world premiere of Bafta winning writer Guy Hibbert’s ‘Tilting Ground’, through Alan Ayckbourne’s ‘Intimate Exchanges’, Neil Simon’s ‘Same Time Next Year’ and the UK Tour of ‘Captain Pugwash and the Monster of Green Island’.



Spyway produces Surprising theatre – emotionally engaging yet thoughtful and thought provoking. The creative impetus coming from writers, new, established and emerging.




Nanny:
Nanny had a peculiar place in the life of the big house. She lived on the Family Side of the Green Baize Door so was set apart from the rest of the staff and could almost be regarded as a member of the family. Nanny could command the butler, cook and housekeeper and accompanied the family on any trip or outing that the children were on. She could even order the car and chauffeur for trips out herself. But this strange place in the hierarchy often meant that Nanny felt isolated and alone. It was not unusual for her to develop strange manners and customs. As she grew older, her foibles and eccentricities would be accepted and tolerated.
Some parts of the character of Nanny Cummins are based on Peter John Cooper’s own mother who was Nanny in several big houses before the Second World War.

Rattle - Community Theatre for Dorset

On Tuesday Tara Dominick asked me to fill in as a guest on her morning show on Hope FM. As this was a Community strand she asked me to talk about theatre from a community perspective. This was a good opportunity for me to try and put my thoughts in some sort of order and we had a jolly pleasant hour or so talking about my favourite subject.
One of my friends missed the show but wanted to hear what I had said. As Hope FM doesn’t have a “listen again” feature I thought I’d try and jot down my thoughts here.
A radio interview is like an argument with a loved one – you can always come up with the perfect rejoinder just as you’re walking away. So if some of this sounds a bit too coherent and too good to be true, it probably is. There’s also quite a lot tacked on at the end that I know we didn’t talk about but which I thought might be worth bunging in as a free extra.

Strange Sea Sighed
Building on the thirty plus years of experience I have had in this field I hope to bring together aspiring and established writers within the area and to facilitate them working within the many disparate communities of Dorset and to reflect the stories that exist within those communities.
Some years ago, when I was Artistic Director of the Oxfordshire Touring Theatre, I developed a new way for working with overlooked communities. We sent writers and actors to live in these communities and listen to and record the stories they had. At first, these would tend to be about the history of the place or group but bit by bit, by gentle prompting we could tease out the real issues and tales that they actually were talking about at that moment. We could turn these into a properly considered play that could be played back to them. And what’s more we could take these plays into other communities as a form of county wide gossip. It was delicious.
Now I’m trying to recreate that idea in Dorset with the Rattle project. I hope I can rattle up a few bones or even dust off some skeletons that might be lurking in various cupboards. Later this month we are presenting “The Strange Sea Sighed” in Swanage. This reflects the weirdness of Swanage back to those who live here or visit here and enables them to see the place we love in a new and unexpected light.

Little Arthur
The word “community” is overused but I believe that we belong to many different communities at once. It may be a group of friends sitting round a table in a pub, it may be an interest group, a geographical group, a hobby group, a religious group, a political party or whatever. My philosophy is based on the idea that stories are what bind these communities together.
Even more interesting is the idea that we belong to several communities at once. They may overlap but quite often we keep these quite separate. They have their own cultures, codes of language and stories. We all know that we switch these cultures and codes continuously between, say, our family, our mates in the pub, our hobby groups.
But we tend not to value these communities and their cultures. Dorset is probably one of the most culturally unaware areas in the United Kingdom. We are a county of incomers as much as we are old families; but our culture is handed down from the histories of communities that we probably do not belong to or relate to. Culturally the county is fragmented into a myriad of many different communities that do not overlap. East and West have separate newspapers, television and radio stations. We do not even have a linking transport infrastructure. What we lack is the ability to gossip and to relay our stories from one community to another.
Through the Rattle project I hope to make people aware of the real stories that glue our many cultures together and to help us to understand where we stand in relation to each other and the world outside. It is a project that will give some sort of reality to new writers who can find juicy big chunks of story to get their teeth into and to get those stories told in a way that is valued by all of us living here.
That means the project has to be professional and able to carry ideas through to an end point. It means that these stories have to be repeated and carried through various communities.
For many years I have been running creative writing workshops, mentoring new writers and trying to encourage established writers to write about the Dorset of here and now. I have been working with poets and developing my own poetry performance skills.
Now is the time to put this all to the test.
I have already found a number of nodal points that are going to give the project an interesting kickstart. The Tank Museum in Bovington is providing a thrilling opening night venue for “Little Arthur’s History of England” on the 3rd of September. I want to work with them and communities like them to make the relationship long term, developing the contemporary reactions to the historical stories that they relate.

Cafe Conversations
One of the problems we have in Dorset is that our creative talent tends to bleed away out of the County. Young people train in Weymouth, Poole and Bournemouth but then find few outlets for their abilities. Even established artists find it difficult to make themselves heard in the County and tend to work anywhere but here. That’s why I want to put those aspiring and established writers together; to strike sparks off each other and, perhaps, find an entirely new voice for Dorset.
I want to develop the Rattle project to the next stage of reality. I need new equipment to draw performers into the fold. I need to be able publicise and run workshops and mentoring sessions. I need to get established writers involved. Above all I must drive onwards to a programme of professionally finished performance that enables the work to be shared and seen.
The first project to operate like this will be called “Cafe Conversations”. Our stable of writers will be encouraged to go and listen to people talking, arguing, joking in cafes and restaurants in some particular environment. They’ll respond to these by producing a number of ten minute two hander plays. We’ll then rehearse these and send them back to the place where they were first heard. And can be played out again to the unsuspecting coffee drinkers.
So would you like to take part? Are you someone who’d like to develop your writing skills for the theatre? Or are you an established writer who would like to work alongside a new writer? Collaborating and mentoring? Would you like to explore the virgin jungle of stories in the communities of Dorset? Contact me: Peter John Cooper on spyway@avnet.co.uk or check out the Spyway website http://www.spyway.co.uk/

Ironic Percussion

Is it possible to have such a thing as ironic percussion? I've just been listening to Leonard Cohen again. The thing I notice after all these years (probably thirty since I heard him last) is the arrangements of the songs. All sorts of interesting little snippets of instruments in the background. On "So Long Marianne", towards the end there is a littlepercussion accompaniment (snare? wash board? tambourine?) and there is a definite sneer in the way it's set against the music. i can't think of another way of describing it. What do you think?

Ave Atque Vale

There comes a time when you begin ticking them off. Those you've seen, those you haven't and, now, those you never will.

I saw Laurence Olivier give a shockingly powerful performance as Shylock on his return from a heart attack. I worked (briefly) with Sir John Gielguid but never saw Dame Peggy Ashcroft and I wish I had. I saw Malcolm Marshall and Andy Roberts and Gordon Greenidge in their savage, graceful pomp but never saw Viv Richards or Ian Botham. I saw Jack and Bobby Charlton work their strange magic but never George Best. (Although I did once meet Gordon Banks). I worked on stage with the London Contemporary Dance Theatre when they were only a jagged footstep away from Martha Graham but never saw the great dancer herself. I saw the Rolling Stones three times in their early days (but there's plenty of time to see them again) but never the Beatles (although I did hear them when they were playing on top of the Apple Building and being filmed for "Let it Be"). I saw the Who and Pink Floyd and even The Grateful Dead (although their all night session bored me to tears). I saw David Bowie when he was a lad called David Jones at a John Peel concert with the Incredible String Band and, I think, Ivor Cutler. I have heard great orchestras and operas. I have seen Michalangelo's David up close and personal and been awestruck by Botticelli's Prima Vera and disappointed by the Mona Lisa. I once listened to Michael Foot in full flow; he was probably past his best but still one of the great orators of the 20century (Ah, how long ago that seems). I was on the march to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square (although I melted away when the fighting got going) and grovelled in the mud of a few festivals but never Glastonbury.

And now: Marcel Marceau. I saw him in London in the sixties when, sadly, I didn't realise his significance. His act contained much that I had seen elsewhere and I was too dull to realise that he had minted most of the coinage. But what came over, more than all the walking-against-the-wind stuff that you see in a thousand shopping centres up and down the country on otherwise breathless summers afternoons, was the sheer humanity of the man shining through his deadpan act. I am proud that I saw him but I can't describe what it was he did. You had to be there... And now you can't.

"Through many countries and over many seas
I have come, Brother, to these melancholy rites,
To show this final honour to the dead,
And speak (to what purpose?) to your silent ashes,
Since now fate takes you, even you, from me.
Oh, Brother, ripped away from me so cruelly,
Now at least take these last offerings, blessed
By the tradition of our parents, gifts to the dead.
Accept, by custom, what a brother's tears drown,
And, for eternity, Brother, 'Hail and Farewell'. "

Catullus

Flexigesis - an explanation

I had an e.mail from Simon Waters pointing out that Flexigesis would be a good target for a Googlewhack. But I'm not sure that it counts if you've made the word up yourself. So in an effort to promote the word for the Oxford English Dictionary here is a definition.

Flexigesis (n) An attempt to explain something that you are unsure of. An explanation of something that changes as you are explaining it. An explanation in which the explanation itself becomes part of the uncertainity.

Uncertainity (n) When things really get out of hand on the explaining front. Makes Heisenberg look like a man with pipe and slippers sitting in an armchair stroking Schroedinger's cat telling his grandchildren what's for supper.

Flexigesis - the poster

Flexigesis

Flexigesis is a multilayered performance piece that has started from a (very long) poem overlayed with a soundscape triggered live by Simon Waters. Simon has developed a continuous track but adds from a battery of specially prepared samples that he has constructed from life as well as electronically. We had a creative day recording sounds in the pouring rain and pounding wind along Swanage seafront. Somewhere in the recordings were some things that Simon could use.

The poem itself is many layered with recurring themes and echoes and free riffs of words by the performer. In performance even the microphone will be treated with effects used in the same way a guitarist in a rock band would.

The whole thing will last about 40 minutes and is guaranteed to blow your mind.

Flexegesis, Flexagesis, Flexigesis

My latest bit of work (a 40 minute performance epic with soundscape by Simon Waters) has been called "Flexegesis" for the last 6 months whilst I've been writing it. A sort of portmanteau of "Flexible" and "Exegesis"However, I find that this coinage crops up on a strange site already. So which variant do I choose - Flexigesis or Flexagesis?

Flexagesis could carry the suggestion of "Flexanimous" (having the power to bend the mind) whilst Flexigesis carries "Exigent" (urgent) and, perhaps, "Exiguous" (extremely small).

Twenty-first Century Banjo

Jimmy was very excited. It was his birthday. And he knew what he was getting as a present. When he was younger, back in the 20th century, he would have hated to know what his presents were before the great day; he loved surprises. But now he was older he had allowed his parents to tell him what he was getting. I n fact, he had chosen what he was to get. And he believed he had chosen well. His parents had allowed him to spend up to five credits and his choice cost just four and a half. That allowed a further half a credit for a couple of Saturn Bars.

He stood for a moment under the infra wash and dried himself quickly in front of the ultra vent. He slipped into his silver suit and ran downstairs. His mother and father were both there smiling broadly. “Happy Birthday, Jimmy” they chorused. And handed him a big card. The card had a 3d picture of the Nostradamus space cruiser on the front. And Jimmy was delighted. He was collecting pictures of space cruisers and the Nostradamus would complete the set. “Sit down, Jimmy, and have your breakfast and then we’ll be off” said his father. “It’s your favourite.” Said his mother and handed him a purple and green capsule. “Thank you, Mum” said Jimmy but he could hardly swallow the pill he was so excited. “Careful, Jimmy, you’ll choke.” She laughed handing him a tube of water. Jimmy chewed as slowly as he could but he hardly tasted the delicious breakfast in his excitement.

“Now, Are you sure you’ve made up your mind?” Said his Father.
“Oh, yes.” Said Jimmy, “I’m certain I j know what I want.”
“Very well, we’d better go or we’ll be late for your appointment.”
“Just let me set the Autovac going.” Said Jimmy’s mother and they headed into the street to climb into the hovercar. They set off for the other side of town down the long, empty boulevards and Jimmy’s heart began to beat in anticipation and, perhaps, just a little apprehension.
“Oh dear, do you think I should have put the autowash on?” Said Jimmy’s mother. There’s a whole pile of silver suits in the wash basket.”
“It’s Jimmy’s day,” laughed his father. “The housework can wait till this afternoon. Besides, you know those new silver suits are coated in Repello-stain and don’t need washing.”
“I know,” grumbled Jimmy’s mother, “But it gives me something to do.”
His father caught Jimmy’s eye in the driving viewer and winked. Jimmy felt very grown up.

At last they pulled up in front of a great shiny plexiglass and steel building with a large flashing red sign that said “United transplants” and underneath in blue neon tubes: “You will – we drill – you thrill.” Jimmy jumped out and rushed up the wide white steps towards the great polished steel doors. Inside the receptionist took Jimmy’s details and they were ushered into a small room at the side of the entrance hall. There were shelves and racks of bottles and flasks of all different colours. At last the door opened and a nurse in a starched white uniform buttoned up to the chin came in. She looked a little severe and Jimmy wondered if this was going to be as easy and painless as promised in the advertising.
“Good morning, young man,” said the nurse, smiling so much and so sweetly that Jimmy felt his fears melt away. “May I ask what you have chosen?”
“The banjo.” Said Jimmy quickly.
“The banjo!” What an excellent choice. “Not very popular but a good investment. You will be the life and soul of any party you go to.”
“Yes,” and I’m having a party tonight.” Said Jimmy.
“If I get the house cleaned in time.” Chimed his mother.
“It’s my birthday, you see,” said Jimmy quickly feeling that perhaps his mother ought to remember that it was his day, not hers.
“And do you have a banjo?” Asked the nurse going over to the shelves and taking down a red bottle.
“We’ve hired one for the week.” Smiled his father.
“Shouldn’t you think of buying one?” Said the nurse smiling back.
“We could never afford the top ups.” He grinned and made a little shrug of his shoulders.
“You wouldn’t want to hinder Jimmy’s musical education, would you? It would be so valuable to him in future life.” Smiled the nurse relentlessly.
“Perhaps we ought to think about it.” Jimmy’s father turned to Jimmy’s mother.
“I need a new Auto-vac first.” She said not smiling as much as the others
“Can we get on?” Said Jimmy just a little impatiently.
“That my boy. Always in a rush.” Grinned his father.
Jimmy’s mother said nothing and the nurse led the way through another door that swished open in front of them and swooshed shut behind.

They were standing in a larger room. Brilliant lights glared down from the ceiling. The walls and floor were shiny white tiles and round the edges of the room there were several gleaming silver and glass machines. Some on wheels, some larger and bolted to the floor. Long pipes and tubes and wires ran between them. In the middle of the room was a large, black chair that had an array of levers and buttons obviously to make it rise and lower and tip and tilt. Directly over the chair was another machine attached to the ceiling and made up of more glass tubes and pipes with a long, narrow drill bit extending down from the centre.

A short round doctor was standing by the chair fiddling with some of the controls. He turned when he heard the swoosh of the door and smiled broadly as they entered.

“Aha.” He smiled. “Welcome in….”
“Jimmy.” Said the nurse.
“Jimmy.” Grinned the doctor. Hop up here on the big chair and we’ll soon have you playing the…”
“Banjo.” Smiled the nurse.
“Banjo.” Went on the doctor. “Is this a permanent installation?”
The nurse shook her head slightly. She made a little face.
“Only temporary? You ought to think about going for permanent. It’ll work out better in the long run. Of course you don’t have to go right up to concert standard but he could make a decent enough living. It’s very economical really.”
“Well, we had been thinking…” said Jimmy’s father.
“No,” said Jimmy’s mother. “Temporary will do.”
“Oh please.” Jimmy turned to his father.
“”No, we’ll do what your mother says.”
“Well, we’ve got a few minutes while the machine warms up.” said the doctor busying himself with the apparatus. “If you want to consider what’s best for the boy.”
“We’ve decided already.” said Jimmy’s mother determinedly.
Jimmy’s father turned to Jimmy and gave him the same little wink that he had done in the hover car. Despite his disappointment Jimmy felt strangely proud and grown up.
“Come on, then.” Said the doctor. “let’s get it over with.”
The nurse helped Jimmy scramble up into the chair. The doctor adjusted the controls so that the chair tilted so that his head was directly under the drilling machine.
“Will it hurt?” said Jimmy slightly worried.
“No, I’ll be fine.” Said the doctor and everyone laughed. “Just keep still and you won’t feel a thing.”
The doctor had clipped the bottle of red liquid into the machine and a high pitched whine came from it as the drill started.
The nurse and Jimmy’s mother and father stood around and smiled encouragingly.
The doctor moved over to a bench at the side of the room, picked up a book and started reading.
“Shouldn’t the doctor be watching?” said Jimmy’s mother.
“Oh no. It’s all automatic from now on.” Said the nurse. We could all go and have a cup of tea if you wanted.
“We’ll stay.” Said Jimmy’s mother firmly.
The silver drill descended lower and lower and began to cut through Jimmy’s skull.
“Are you all right, Jimmy?” said his mother.
“I’m fine. I can’t feel a thing.”
“You see there are no nerve endings in the brain.” Said the nurse comfortingly. “It’s quite without feeling.”

After a few minutes the drill seemed to slow and stop. Liquid moved through glass tubes and then the drill withdrew.
The doctor put down his book.
“There you are. All done.”
Jimmy hopped down from the chair.
“Is that it? Doesn’t it need a plaster or something?” Asked Jimmy’s mother looking worried.
“Don’t fuss.” Said Jimmy’s father.
“You can put a plaster on if you want.” Said the doctor doubtfully. “But it’s probably better not to. It will get stuck in his hair and might hurt when you pull it off. Just hold a hanky over it till it stops oozing.
Jimmy’s father found a big clean white hanky that he folded carefully and gave to Jimmy to hold over the hole in his head.
“Let’s all go home and get ready for the party.” Smiled Jimmy’s father.
“Don’t forget to pay at reception on the way out.” Said the nurse who kept smiling until the door shut behind them.

That evening, Jimmy was almost trembling with excitement. The party was in full swing. All the neighbours from both sides of the street were there as were some of his school chums. The neighbours had glasses of red, green and blue liquid and Jimmy’s friends were all drinking lemonola from squeeze bottles. Jimmy’s father stepped into the middle of the room and clapped his hands. “Attention everybody. Quiet please. It’s time for Jimmy’s birthday present.” He fetched a shiny black case from the side of the room and, laying it on the carpet, he unclipped the brass catches and let it spring open. “Here you are, Jimmy,” he said and he picked up the most beautiful chrome plated five string banjo. Jimmy held it lovingly. It felt so strange. He had never actually held a real banjo before. He had dreamt of this moment. He had imagined how the strings would feel beneath his fingers, how it would feel to be making glorious jangling, crashing banjo music. How his fingers would mover faster and faster as “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” neared its racing breakneck climax. How glorious it would be to hear the applause and shouts of praise. Especially from those of his chums.

His father placed a chair for him to sit on. He flexed his fingers and began to pick.

The neighbours shifted uneasily. Little smiles appeared on the lips of Jimmy’s school chums. Even his mother and father began to look anxiously at each other. Jimmy tried to make the music he had imagined in his dreams but all that was pouring from the banjo was a discordant muddle and jangle of notes. The noise was terrible. An elderly lady from two doors up clapped her hands over her ears. Neighbours put their fingers over their mouths. Jimmy’s chums were laughing openly. Jimmy tried desperately to make the music come but all that happened was that the cacophony grew louder and more awful. Neighbours began pulling on their silver coats and children began to jeer. Jimmy began to feel hot and awkward. He could feel himself going red. Tears began to prickle at his eyes. This was dreadful. This was the twenty-first century. It shouldn’t be possible to feel this amount of shame and humiliation. Not now. Not today. Not on his birthday. Suddenly he threw down the chrome and silver instrument and ran sobbing to his bedroom.

Later his father and mother crept up to see him.
“I rang the transplant place. They were very apologetic, of course. It was an easy mistake to make. The nurse just picked the wrong bottle off the shelf. You can’t really blame her.”
Jimmy’s mother made a little snorting noise.
“We’ll make it up to you somehow. Of course, they wouldn’t give us a refund because they said it would have worked perfectly well if we’d had a saxophone about the house.”
“All I can say is,” said Jimmy’s mother, “That it’s a jolly good job we didn’t go for the permanent option.” And they all laughed.

Donkeys

This is a wasted place, this blasted heath.
Here men have scraped and burnt and dug
For sand and clay and and stone while deep beneath
The ancient, roiling tropic nighttime swamp,
The Habitat of dinosaur and dragonfly,
Is soaked into the yellow sands of time,
The blackened blood from some- prehuman war.
But Now the grotesque scars are soothed and healed
And four brown donkeys work to tame this wilderness
Amidst the autumn warmth of Whin and gorse,
The Home of hare and deer and harrier.
They nod the power into light
And, by their tireless, ceaseless work,
The wilderness creeps out from underneath.

More pictures from Wytch Heath

At the risk of becoming a camera bore, here are some more snaps taken in the chill of a Sunday morning in winter.

Winter Sunrise

For reasons which I shan't go into here, last Sunday the 18th December at five o'clock on a very chilly morning, I found myself wandering about Wytch Heath on the edge of Poole Harbour. I'd been lent a digital camera which I had no idea how to work but I took a few snaps of the sunrise. See what you think.

The Sound of Summer

Those who have been waiting for the first day’s play in the Ashes Test Series against Australia were not disappointed. It was so dramatic I had to keep switching the radio off. For some of us, however, the summer game will never have quite the same resonance since John Arlott handed over his microphone for the last time. For thirty years Arlott’s warm Hampshire burr was the very sound of summer. His commentaries were more than about cricket. They were about the very essence of what it is to be human. One of his favourite quotations: “Who knows of cricket who only cricket know?” But many listeners who remember his sharp, rich and humane words may not have been aware of his other contributions to the worlds of poetry and the anti-apartheid movement. Arlott was an accomplished poet whose work reflected the man. But his lasting legacy was that of the radio producer who discovered, developed and provided work for the young Dylan Thomas. John Arlott and Dylan Thomas were great friends and John realised that he had to do everything in his power to keep the poet functioning even to the extent of loaning him money from his own pocket (and which, he later confirmed, was all paid back).
He was brought up in Basingstoke. The family lived in the gatehouse of the Holy Ghost Chapel (in the graveyard of which the unfortunate May Blunden was buried alive - twice). He attended Fairfields School (since the Basingstoke Drama Centre) and worked as a special constable in the town. He was a great connoisseur of fine wine. He later moved to Alresford and, finally, to Alderney where he died. He was a true liberal (with a small “l”) although he did once stand as a Liberal candidate.
John worked for the sporting boycott of South Africa and was instrumental in bringing the Cape Coloured Cricketer Basil d’Oliveira to England.
John Arlott was the greatest sports broadcaster ever, he was a fine poet and an important contributor to the world as a whole. And although he died in 1991 and his last broadcast was as long ago as 1980 we still miss him .
If you want to hear his voice click here and download the brief audio cliphttp://www.radioacademy.org/halloffame/arlott_j/index.shtml

More Summer Lightning

Whilst I recognised the actual line about Byron in the previous post, I couldn't recall the whole poem. This one is much more the image I was after. Although, who Edward Carpenter was, I quite forgot (I have printed a wickipaedia biography at the end of the poem)

The World-Spirit
By Edward Carpenter (b. 1844)

LIKE soundless summer lightning seen afar,
A halo o’er the grave of all mankind,
O undefinèd dream-embosomed star,
O charm of human love and sorrow twined:


Far, far away beyond the world’s bright streams,
Over the ruined spaces of the lands,
Thy beauty, floating slowly, ever seems
To shine most glorious; then from out our hands

To fade and vanish, evermore to be
Our sorrow, our sweet longing sadly borne,
Our incommunicable mystery
Shrined in the soul’s long night before the morn.

Ah! in the far fled days, how fair the sun
Fell sloping o’er the green flax by the Nile,
Kissed the slow water’s breast, and glancing shone
Where laboured men and maidens, with a smile

Cheating the laggard hours; o’er them the doves
Sailed high in evening blue; the river-wheel
Sang, and was still; and lamps of many loves
Were lit in hearts, long dead to woe or weal.

And, where a shady headland cleaves the light
That like a silver swan floats o’er the deep
Dark purple-stained Aegean, oft the height
Felt from of old some poet-soul upleap,

As in the womb a child before its birth,
Foreboding higher life. Of old, as now,
Smiling the calm sea slept, and woke with mirth
To kiss the strand, and slept again below.

So, from of old, o’er Athens’ god-crowned steep
Or round the shattered bases of great Rome,
Fleeting and passing, as in dreamful sleep,
The shadow-peopled ages go and come:

Sounds of a far-awakened multitude,
With cry of countless voices intertwined,
Harsh strife and stormy roar of battle rude,
Labour and peaceful arts and growth of mind.

And yet, o’er all, the One through many seen,
The phantom Presence moving without fail,
Sweet sense of closelinked life and passion keen
As of the grass waving before the gale.

What art Thou, O that wast and art to be?
Ye forms that once through shady forest-glade
Or golden light-flood wandered lovingly,
What are ye? Nay, though all the past do fade

Ye are not therefore perished, ye whom erst
The eternal Spirit struck with quick desire,
And led and beckoned onward till the first
Slow spark of life became a flaming fire.

Ye are not therefore perished: for behold
To-day ye move about us, and the same
Dark murmur of the past is forward rolled
Another age, and grows with louder fame

Unto the morrow: newer ways are ours,
New thoughts, new fancies, and we deem our lives
New-fashioned in a mould of vaster powers;
But as of old with flesh the spirit strives,

And we but head the strife. Soon shall the song
That rolls all down the ages blend its voice
With our weak utterance and make us strong;
That we, borne forward still, may still rejoice,

Fronting the wave of change. Thou who alone
Changeless remainest, O most mighty Soul,
Hear us before we vanish! O make known
Thyself in us, us in Thy living whole.

Edward Carpenter (29 August 1844 – 28 June 1929) was a socialist poet, anthologist, and an early homosexual activist.
Born in Brighton, Carpenter attended Trinity College, Cambridge before joining the church as a curate. He was heavily influenced by the minister at his church, the leader of the Christian Socialist movement. Carpenter left the church in 1874 and became a lecturer in astronomy. During this period, he moved to Sheffield to live fairly openly in a same sex relationship with George Merrill. A visit by E.M. Forster to the couple inspired Forster's novel Maurice. Carpenter was also a significant influence on the author D.H. Lawrence.
In 1883, Carpenter joined the Social Democratic Federation, and in 1885 he left to join the Socialist League. After dabbling in the Labour Church movement, and achieving growing acclaim for his Whitman-esque poetry, he became a founder member of the Independent Labour Party in 1893. His pacifism led him to become a vocal opponent of first the Boer War and then the First World War.
In the 1890s, Carpenter began to campaign against discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation. He strongly believed that sexuality was innate. In 1908, he wrote Intermediate Sex, an important though at the time highly controversial book on the subject.
His groundbreaking 1908 anthology of poems, Iolaus - anthology of friendship was a huge underground success, leading to a more advanced knowledge of homoerotic culture. It went to a second British edition in 1906 and a third edition in 1927. The New York 1917 edition is now available as a free online e-book.
Carpenter was an infuence on photographer Ansel Adams. In his early manhood Adams was... "devoted to the comparative-religious poetry of Edward Carpenter, who had close links with the Theosophical community of Halcyon, in Southern California" (Anne Hammond, Ansel Adams: Equivalent as Expression.).

Summer Lightning (An answer)

The Cambridge History of English and American Literature in 18 Volumes (1907–21).Volume XIV. The Victorian Age, Part Two.V. University Journalism.§ 1. Calverley.
THE man in the train has settled habits and views, definite experience of life, its problems and difficulties. The undergraduate changes yearly, and is in the tentative period of youth, though the influence of his school and his restricted atmosphere (in England, at any rate) keep him fairly constant in type. He has much of the freedom of manhood without its responsibilities. For him, life is a comedy, or, at most, a tragi-comedy; he has not begun to understand. He writes, if he writes at all, at leisure, and the product of idle hours beneath the shade, as Horace hints, is not often destined to be remembered beyond the year. Horace, who owed his success largely to a good schoolmaster and the university of Athens, is in tone and form, the ideal poet of university life. He is halfserious, half-sportive, with an exquisite sense of form and metre, and he has more university imitators than a dozen good prose writers can boast. These imitators have a zeal for form due to their reading. The study of the ancient classics gives a sense of conciseness, and a detestation for the mere verbiage which is frequent in ordinary journalism. University journalism thus follows a great tradition, but it does not start a new one.
1
An anarchic age like the present is inclined to underrate the sense of tradition, which does not, perhaps, foster the most seminal minds; but modern masters of prose and verse have mostly been trained in it, and the maxim, “the form, the form alone is eloquent,” is worth remembering. In particular, the sense of comedy which comes from playing at life has found expression in classical parody and light verse. Here, Cambridge can show a long line of masters whom she has trained, from Prior and Praed to Thackeray, Calverley and J. K. Stephen. Oxford, more in touch with the world, has been more serious and more prolific in prophets, but can claim a first-rate professor of the sportive mood in Andrew Lang. Calverley, however, is the leading master and his inimitable short line has had many disciples:

The wit of smooth delicious Matthew Prior,
The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed,
The summer lightning wreathing Byron’s lyre,
The neat inevitable turns of Praed,
Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire,
Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played,
All these good gifts and others far sublimer
Are found in thee, beloved Cambridge rhymer. 1

Garble from Google

I thought I would make lots of money from this site by having a Google Adsense link on my page. At the beginning of the process I was invited to choose an appropriate language for the wording and I selected "English (UK)". The paragraph that followed contained this sentence: "...you'll finally have a way to both monetise and enhance your content pages."
The split infinitive made me shudder enough but it was the "M" word that had me racing for the Escape Button. I thought the whole point of language was to communicate not to cause choking and nausea. I might try again and select Mandarin Chinese to see if that's any more comprehensible.

Wodehouse

Hacking about in the undergrowth looking for "Summer Lightning" clues, I happened upon this site. No help in my quest but quite a good appreciation of the man and his works.
http://www.pgwodehousebooks.com/aboutus.htm

Summer Lightning

Summer Lightning
Over the summer I have been re-reading some of the great books by P.G. Wodehouse. It is a great pleasure to renew acquaintances with Psmith, Ukridge Wooster and the rest of them. I hadn’t realised that, in the early days, Wodehouse collaborated with George Grossmith; himself the co-author of one of the great comic books of the English language - “The Diary of a Nobody”.
However, one of the titles in the Blandings series has stuck in my mind and has been nagging away like an old tooth. It is “Summer Lightning” and it’s a quotation but I can’t remember from where. It could be A.E. Housman or Rupert Brooke or even Wordsworth but it just won’t come to mind. I’ve scoured all the reference books I can find and I’ve searched the web but drawn a complete blank. There are one or two modern uses of the phrase but they’re obviously long after Wodehouse. So, anyone got any suggestions?

TED

The TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) 2005 conference in Oxford has just drawn to a close. Did anyone reading this attend? Anything to share?http://www.ted.com/conference/flashpage.cfm?conferenceKey=TG2005