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Tuesday, August 20, 2013

As a writer I sometimes get asked to become involved in various arts issues.   I was asked to make a presentation to a full session of Bournemouth Borough Council about the imminent destruction of the Boscombe Community Arts Centre.  It might seem a bit parochial to my readers in other parts of the world but it is a piece of work as carefully crafted and thought out as any other and we must all do what we can to protect the arts in this age of miserable utilitarianism.



July 30th 2013



Deputation to Bournemouth Full Council



On behalf of Bournemouth Creatives.







I am Peter John Cooper theatre professional and writer.  I have run companies in Oxford and North Wales and other part of the UK.  Born in Hampshire when Bournemouth and Boscombe were part of that County.  Spent twenty years in Dorset where I have been chair of a number of County wide arts organisations.  Resident of the Borough for three years. Speaking on behalf of Bournemouth Creatives and other arts organisations.



A building is only a roof with some walls to hold it up.  What is significant is what goes on inside that building.  But once the roof is smashed in and the walls bulldozed nothing can be done and its heritage is lost.  I am speaking of the Boscombe Centre for Community Arts.  You will have seen the superb business plan for the building and one, you will agree, where the numbers are real and certainly stack up and which answers every probing question that you and others have asked of it.  The research it contains is much more persuasive than that presented by the officers here which states that Boscombe has adequate community provision because of its wealth of nightclubs.  Would you take your child to a painting session in a pole dance club?. You know the historical significance of this building as one of the very first Drama Centres in the UK and its groundbreaking work in education and disability. You have seen the deputations from the hundreds of residents and dozens of businesses and enterprises that desperately need the work of the centre to carry on. It’s all in here. You know how persuasive all the evidence is and you know how important the work that could be achieved under this roof within these walls again because you have already had the foresight to realise how the arts can begin the regeneration of a run down area.



Over the weekend I was delighted to be invited to a number of events in North and East London.  Here there are acres of derelict warehouses and factories among run down estates.  I saw was an extraordinary transformation in the lives of many of the residents through innovative uses of buildings and spaces as live in workshops, arts centres, galleries, start up business units.  All making a huge difference in the general air of optimism.  I saw children and young people using spaces in a myriad of inventive ways some of them not entirely expected and intended.  



We have two Universities with the name Bournemouth in them.  Too many of their Alumni, flee our conurbation to places like these in Hackney taking their skills away with them. What is missing is that vital community hub where we can exploit their knowledge and energy, where children can go and get messy with paint and clay and where pensioners can dance or excerise.  Where people can come together and explore their differences and give them back some pride in their lives.  That child experimenting with that pile of clay may be on a path that leads to experiments that give us new hope in health care.  Those people learning dance steps may be helping to get over stroke or other disability.  That kid painting on the wall might one day be the graphic designer that delivers the new branding to the Borough.



We don’t have the run down warehouses of Tower Hamlets, so where do we place that centre of ideas, creativity, research and development, enterprise, wealth? Certainly two small historical school rooms are not in any way sufficient.  Neither do all the pubs and nightclubs and church halls mentioned in the council’s research. Should we ask you to raise the millions necessary to build a new new palace of glass and stainless steel? A new Imax for the Arts?  Of course not.  That vital piece of infrastructure  is already in place. There is some minimal remediation work necessary, mostly the restoration of what was removed in the process of closing it down.  This Business Plan demonstrates real community engagment and knowledge and genuinely demonstrates that the place can be viable.

So to that real poser.  How do we choose between housing and a community centre?  The answer is that we mustn’t.   You know there are other, better housing options.  But this is the only Community Arts centre we have in the whole conurbation. At this last hour please don’t let the bulldozers roll. Don’t knock the heart out of the community. Please reconsider the importance of this project. And don’t rubberstamp the end of hope for so many people.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

The Death of the Hurdy Gurdy Boy - Some reviews

'The Death of the Hurdy Gurdy Boy' started out as a story for my teenage daughter.  Cross over fiction is now very popular with a general readership picking up novels originally aimed at a younger readership.  Think Harry Potter and Hunger Games.  Nothing wrong with that, young people have been enjoying adult novels since the days of Jane Austen, why not share in the other direction?  J.K. Rowling and Suzanne Collins are well aware of the potential. My writing for theatre has always been predicated on the idea that anyone can access a good story and get something out of it and what holds good for drama must hold for other art forms.  And that doesn't mean that the writer needs to back pedal on the issues. Younger people respond well to be treated as adults and having their intelligence challenged.  So the good writer neither talks down to a younger audience nor dilutes what they are saying and the language they use to say it. 'The Death of the Hurdy Gurdy Boy' and its companion novels  deal with the ideas of homelessness, death and loss of family, poverty but it also has the positives of perseverance, companionship and love. And because it's me writing them, they are also funny and whimsical with a rich language and, I hope, a banging good read..

 Here are a couple of the reviews that are coming in from Amazon.
Well written story with an insight to a boys life in the past and his new found friend of the future. Good conclusion and would recommend it to my friends.

An anytime book which will leave you wanting to read more.. Actually it’s a good holiday read for a sunny day under a brolly with a jug of crushed ice. I enjoyed it. Easy Kindle bought and easy to read. 

Tuesday, July 02, 2013

60009 The Union of South Africa Approaches Chippenham at speed

On 3 July 1938 4468 Mallard ; the Nigel Gresley designed streamlined pacific, set a world speed record of 126 mph (202.8 km/h), pulling six coaches and a dynamometer car. In honour of this 75th anniversary I have included my poem about Mallard's sister engine 'Union of South Africa'
File:Up Capitals Limited express on the ECML at Wymondley, south of Hitchin 2282866.jpg 



Five hundred tons of steel
Cast iron, coal,
Bone, wood, glass
  Water, Blood, brass
Brain tissue and fire
Travelling at 75 miles an hour
(The limit for steam trains
On Network Rail)
But Enough sheer energy
To suck the breath from your body
To smash you to cells
To reduce you to nothing more than a red mist
Or to make the hairs on the back of your neck
Stand up and wave.
Thrown down the track with unimaginable power
60009 The Union of South Africa
Approaches Chippenham.

There is only the lulled hubbub
Of the evening station
A parked car waiting for some late commuter
Two station staff
Talking quietly
Then, for a second
The watchers of the night
See a brief whisp of light
See the single small light
As some distant planet….

Boiler pressure is 250 psi
Walschaerts gear on the outside cylinders, and
Gresley's conjugated gear for the inside cylinder.
 Kylchap double-blastpipe exhaust,
and Westinghouse QSA Brake Valves.
Mere words that sum up
Something cataclysmically alive

Now, listening out
 hear that unmistakable
Syncopation in the distance
we may not know what it means
No louder than a sewing machine
Click-a-click-a-click-click
6 beats per revolution
At 16 seconds just as our hearing begins to register
The faint sound is interrupted
By the four chimes
And the mechanical voice of the station announcement
Stand well away from the edge of platform 2. 
(We know this is only a machine speaking
Because there is no anticipation in the voice
No expectation
That this thing
This living thing
Is hurtling towards it)
Stand well away
Those who
Are in the know
Have heard the staccato
Off beat
Have turned and
Are watching the single small light
Growing from the distance
No adequate warning of what is coming
Stand well away from the edge of platform 2. 
The approaching…
One of the significant features of the Gresley A4s
Was the specially designed chime whistle
Removed and melted down in the war
Because they sounded too much
Like air raid sirens.
But all remade and replaced
So that its voice is unmistakable throughout the known univese
Stand well away from the edge of platform 2.  The approaching…
But the electric voice is smashed to pieces
By that hungry howl
That wells up from the bowels of hell
And would snatch you away
If you were standing any closer
It screams as if in a deep ecstasy
And just when you cannot stand anymore
The train
Is on you
Past you
A flash in the station lights
And already the carriages are
Crashing by
This is as close as we ever shall be to the pounding heart of God
And the long, long whistle
Modulates through Doppler
Down, down until you are almost sick
With the dragging at your guts.

With the breathless hush
As at the end of a great symphony
We stand watching
The winking light
Of the tail of the last carriage
Distant
Already fading

“That was loud enough Gareth”
“ I should think.”


Sunday, June 30, 2013

The Death of the Hurdy Gurdy Boy


My new novel, The death of the Hurdy Gurdy Boy is now available on Kindle from Amazon. Click on this title for the link. Here is the opening paragraph

It wasn’t a good night to die. If I’d had a choice it would have been a quiet night in summer. Warm and still. All the stars shining above. Strolling home with a few pals having a laugh and a joke after a good meal of steak and onions. Then sort of lying down on a big feather bed and drifting off gently with the sound of music and merriment coming out of one of the pubs. Then I’d dream of kind faces and stuff out of the past. So I wouldn’t know anything about dying at all. Not huddling in a lousy shop doorway with the wind whipping my fingers and ears so that I could hardly bear the pain of the cold any more. My teeth long since given up chattering. They didn't have the strength. And this frock coat with the silk lapels was only thin. Very smart but it didn't give no protection. I banged my hands together to get some warmth going and looked up at the candlestick in the window with all the candles blazing looking warm and welcoming. But not for me. All I could feel was the pain of the cold in my ears and cheeks until suddenly, there was a sort of explosion in my head. A different sort of pain. A shower of golden stars behind my eyes and I was pitched forward out of existence.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Song for a Child



I originally wrote this for a child who was in hospital for an ear operation.  It was then set to music by my old friend Roderick Skeaping as part of a suite for a children's choir.  It had it's premier at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on the South Bank in London.

I forgot about it for some years but retrieved it for a poetry reading in Bournemouth this Spring.


There is no sound.
There is no sound
Like the vibration of the ether.
The piercing sound of crystal spheres
Is silence;
The farewell tears
Of stars that glitter:
Planets skitter
In their orbits like fireflies
At evening:
There is no sound

There is no sound
Like old fools praying:
"Remove our fears"
Is what they're saying.
No sound of prayers
Can reach the stars.
There is no stairs
For angels  passing
And the old men's eyes are filled with with tears:
“There is no sound!”

There is no sound;
But the still small voice,
Too small to still the fears of fools
But carried on the ether,
Reaches to the child who hears
The Sound.
There is the sound.