One Hand Clapping
A long day, and extremely hot. To Surbiton for Kingston University's Assessment Board; I'm privileged to be external examiner there for the MA in Creative Writing and it really does feel like a privilege. They clearly have a very popular successful course there. Honestly makes me long to be a creative writing student with all the discipline and support both given and received. But perhaps we tutors are only really students in disguise.
What few comments I could make for potential consideration in future runs of the modules was rewarded by excellent lunch and conversation. Then a bit of free time in which I mostly sat with a large black coffee wondering what to do with my forthcoming manuscript of poetry; though pleased still with a lot of the pieces (it's always interesting to see how different these creations look after quite a long break: it's been months since initial submission of the manuscript) I'm rather unsure whether the m/s works together as a whole. But I need to give it more thought, time permitting, over the next few weeks.
Anyway, time moved on and I finished off the 'working' day with a reading at the Women's Library in Old Castle Street with three very talented writing colleagues. Seemed to go well though I'm not sure I was reading the best set of poems. Always difficult to know how to pitch these things and whom one is actually reading for. But here's the poem I started with; an old one actually, from a collection now out of print due to Stride no longer print publishing. I remember writing it after a weekday evening yoga class in a little school hall near where I was renting a flat. Our teacher Mikki liked to give us a little meditative food for thought in the final relaxation.
What Is the Sound of One Hand Clapping?
It is the sound of paradox and cliche. Lying
in the yoga class at end of play, it is the clinch.
It has been stretched for years and needs a rest.
It is the sound of the air on your face, air that has swirled
round the school gym, while the poses swung and held.
It is the sound of ceaseless, futile effort.
It is the glide of flexed and silent ease.
It is the muted wave of one who lacks a catch,
the simple mind that lacks a voice.
It is the slap of palm on thigh, mass applaud
as the class warms up by Chinese massage.
It is the slight, half-hearted politesse
of those whose half-time drinks are full and precious.
It is the soundless rage of prisoners,
the careful patting of the sly, the subtle sleight
of the master detective, seeking hidden doors.
It is skin folded in, and then extended,
a swift flamenco clip. A grasp of sand:
a koan half dissolved, and half in hand.
The art of the impossible. Drinks with colleagues ensued. And then K- and I went to Islington and searched for ages for a restaurant we'd been to some years ago and wanted to revisit. It had vanished. So we gave up and got a taxi back to Cats on the Stroud Green Road and it felt good to be on home territory once again. Two feet back on known ground.
What few comments I could make for potential consideration in future runs of the modules was rewarded by excellent lunch and conversation. Then a bit of free time in which I mostly sat with a large black coffee wondering what to do with my forthcoming manuscript of poetry; though pleased still with a lot of the pieces (it's always interesting to see how different these creations look after quite a long break: it's been months since initial submission of the manuscript) I'm rather unsure whether the m/s works together as a whole. But I need to give it more thought, time permitting, over the next few weeks.
Anyway, time moved on and I finished off the 'working' day with a reading at the Women's Library in Old Castle Street with three very talented writing colleagues. Seemed to go well though I'm not sure I was reading the best set of poems. Always difficult to know how to pitch these things and whom one is actually reading for. But here's the poem I started with; an old one actually, from a collection now out of print due to Stride no longer print publishing. I remember writing it after a weekday evening yoga class in a little school hall near where I was renting a flat. Our teacher Mikki liked to give us a little meditative food for thought in the final relaxation.
What Is the Sound of One Hand Clapping?
It is the sound of paradox and cliche. Lying
in the yoga class at end of play, it is the clinch.
It has been stretched for years and needs a rest.
It is the sound of the air on your face, air that has swirled
round the school gym, while the poses swung and held.
It is the sound of ceaseless, futile effort.
It is the glide of flexed and silent ease.
It is the muted wave of one who lacks a catch,
the simple mind that lacks a voice.
It is the slap of palm on thigh, mass applaud
as the class warms up by Chinese massage.
It is the slight, half-hearted politesse
of those whose half-time drinks are full and precious.
It is the soundless rage of prisoners,
the careful patting of the sly, the subtle sleight
of the master detective, seeking hidden doors.
It is skin folded in, and then extended,
a swift flamenco clip. A grasp of sand:
a koan half dissolved, and half in hand.
The art of the impossible. Drinks with colleagues ensued. And then K- and I went to Islington and searched for ages for a restaurant we'd been to some years ago and wanted to revisit. It had vanished. So we gave up and got a taxi back to Cats on the Stroud Green Road and it felt good to be on home territory once again. Two feet back on known ground.
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