Raining poets in London
Sleeping-pill assisted sleep made me feel much improved today, although still unaccountably edgy. But cut through things quickly, sent copies of Defenders off to an agent and to Shaun Shackleton at the Guernsey Press. Also contacted The Sussex Beacon about the CD project, went to see Adrian and Diane about photographs, taking in dozens of spangly high heels Adrain is shooting. Was made a lovely cup of coffee and had a nice chat with both.
Off to London, plans changing at the last moment so took myself amid torrential rain to the poetry library in The Royal Festial Hall. Had a strange sequence of coincidences all relating to people I knew really well in the early 90s. Wandered over at random to pick up a copy of Acumen and it fell open at a poem by Rhona McAdam, an old friend. Next magazine I picked up it fell open at a review of the excellent iTuplips by Mario Petrucci, another old friend. Wandered aimlessly along the shelves and Tim Gallagher's Narcissus Goes A-Courting which I helped put together stared out at me. I picked up a list of competitions and the first one I saw was judged by Tamar Yoseloff someone else I knew quite well. Not sure how all this left me feeling. Sat down in a sofa just outside the library doors, listening to the wind howling around the Royal Festival Hall in a Peake-ish manner, and thinking that at least I had a book in there, even if it is (with typical dose of Kenny fame repellent) filed under F for Fleming.
Then across the river and dodging rain up to Foyles, where I bought two books. Trouble Came to the Turnip by Caroline Bird, and the Selected Poems of Anna Akhmatova translated by Richard McKane. Richard was someone I have also met on many occasions years ago in the Troubadour Coffee House, and he was busy translating with passion Akhmatova's works. There are glowing reviews on the back of this fine book published by Bloodaxe, and I am delighted that Richard's project has come to this fruition. Like Caroline Bird's book too on first reading.
Ran then to the Victorian gin palace splendours of the Salisbury, dodging heavy rain and lightning, running past alarmed tourists in doorways. Sat reading my purchases and waiting for Anton and Terry Brissenden. Terry arrived first. I had not seen him for over ten years, and he looked much the same. Really nice guy who runs his own agency, full of ideas and good company. Also Anton sporting his new glasses which make him look intelligent. Lots of catching up with Terry. Interested when I told him about my various projects he suggested that I was doing too many things. I will have to think about that.
Then a desire for food... Managed to get into the third restaurant, a Chinese one in Soho and snapped down a large feast. Terry insisted on paying for the meal, and then disappeared into the night. Anton and I had a protracted and slow journey back to Brighton. For a two stops of our journey we were on the same carriage as former Chelsea hero Gianfranco Zola. As I got off I walked up to him and shook his hand. Nice man.
Back blearily to Brighton after midnight and, refusing Anton's request to carry him up the hill, retired gracefully home.
Sleeping-pill assisted sleep made me feel much improved today, although still unaccountably edgy. But cut through things quickly, sent copies of Defenders off to an agent and to Shaun Shackleton at the Guernsey Press. Also contacted The Sussex Beacon about the CD project, went to see Adrian and Diane about photographs, taking in dozens of spangly high heels Adrain is shooting. Was made a lovely cup of coffee and had a nice chat with both.
Off to London, plans changing at the last moment so took myself amid torrential rain to the poetry library in The Royal Festial Hall. Had a strange sequence of coincidences all relating to people I knew really well in the early 90s. Wandered over at random to pick up a copy of Acumen and it fell open at a poem by Rhona McAdam, an old friend. Next magazine I picked up it fell open at a review of the excellent iTuplips by Mario Petrucci, another old friend. Wandered aimlessly along the shelves and Tim Gallagher's Narcissus Goes A-Courting which I helped put together stared out at me. I picked up a list of competitions and the first one I saw was judged by Tamar Yoseloff someone else I knew quite well. Not sure how all this left me feeling. Sat down in a sofa just outside the library doors, listening to the wind howling around the Royal Festival Hall in a Peake-ish manner, and thinking that at least I had a book in there, even if it is (with typical dose of Kenny fame repellent) filed under F for Fleming.
Then across the river and dodging rain up to Foyles, where I bought two books. Trouble Came to the Turnip by Caroline Bird, and the Selected Poems of Anna Akhmatova translated by Richard McKane. Richard was someone I have also met on many occasions years ago in the Troubadour Coffee House, and he was busy translating with passion Akhmatova's works. There are glowing reviews on the back of this fine book published by Bloodaxe, and I am delighted that Richard's project has come to this fruition. Like Caroline Bird's book too on first reading.
Ran then to the Victorian gin palace splendours of the Salisbury, dodging heavy rain and lightning, running past alarmed tourists in doorways. Sat reading my purchases and waiting for Anton and Terry Brissenden. Terry arrived first. I had not seen him for over ten years, and he looked much the same. Really nice guy who runs his own agency, full of ideas and good company. Also Anton sporting his new glasses which make him look intelligent. Lots of catching up with Terry. Interested when I told him about my various projects he suggested that I was doing too many things. I will have to think about that.
Then a desire for food... Managed to get into the third restaurant, a Chinese one in Soho and snapped down a large feast. Terry insisted on paying for the meal, and then disappeared into the night. Anton and I had a protracted and slow journey back to Brighton. For a two stops of our journey we were on the same carriage as former Chelsea hero Gianfranco Zola. As I got off I walked up to him and shook his hand. Nice man.
Back blearily to Brighton after midnight and, refusing Anton's request to carry him up the hill, retired gracefully home.
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