Wish Me Luck
I must admit, when I checked the planner for this week finding I was due to write the blog, it was with some horror. I do not wish to sound as if Iím winging, but I am so busy. Family issues, son moving jobs and country, daughterís baby due any second, and buying a second home ourselves. The son and daughter, not directly our issue, but time has to be taken out to sort problems. Obviously the house, a long time is spent emailing back and forth with the solicitor. Now it is all being held up because the builder who worked on the property canít provide a FENSA certificate. I know everything has to be correct, but sometimes I donít care! Reading the letters the solicitors send to each other, such a correct style of language; nothing has moved on since Mr Tangle in Bleak House.
On top of that I have the poetry reading in Angers, France, in November. Yes, Iím getting paid for it, and Iím very excited and honoured that the society has invited me, the first English speaking author to read, but it exerts a pressure. Iíve had to write a whole lot of new poems to reflect the photographerís work. This is a new experience for me. I rarely write any more from inspiration but use a theme, phrase or word of my choice. However the poems Iíve written for the exhibition must be used. I canít really set them aside. Yes, I think they are okay, but what if they arenít? What if they are the most dreadful set of poems on the planet and I make a complete fool of myself? Iím English reading to a French audience. Will they Ďgetí the nuances, little jokes, phrases that an English audience would understand? I can see myself drowning. And not waving.
Time! I thought I had enough poems a couple of weeks ago so I read and recorded them. Came in at just under 5 minutes. That leaves me with 15 minutes. I suppose I could sing, magic trick, tap danceÖ
When I met the organisers a couple of weeks ago at the museum they asked me to read a couple of poems. So there I was, French people wandering about looking at the exhibition and suddenly this mad Englishman starts bellowing out poems. Except I didnít, bellow. ĎYou must be much louder,í I was told, Ďand we want it as a performance. Not a reading.í So here I sit, in my house, performing poems that the whole village can hear. I reckon theyíll come and take me away soon.
Wish me luck.