Category Archives: Seasonal

Time Takes a Cigarette 11

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Paris. I am chasing the zeitgeistian up the Eiffel Tower. The city of love sprawls below us, a painted lady displaying her assets to the world’s custom. The wind howls around the iron girders as we spiral higher and higher. A son et lumière projects animated Picassos and Van Goghs onto the skeletal frame. Jean Michael Jarre plays his organ of light to a gasping crowd. My lungs burn. A stitch in time needles my side. Gasping like a gold-fish flipped out of the bowl by a lightning-pawed tomcat, I finally reached the top level. The beloathed pops a bottle of Moët et Chandon. ‘Ah, just in time for the show.’ Back to the railing. Nowhere to run. ‘Who are you? Why? How?’ I gaped. The stranger took a deep swig from the bottle. ‘Time is a ruined mansion. And I’m its wrecking ball. Chronology. It’s so … yesterday. History is history. Shock all the clocks. Time needs shaking up.’ I imagine seizing us both and plummeting to our deaths in a final Holmes-Moriaty death-coupling. Before I could do anything, black-clad security guards burst out of the fire doors and rugby-tackle me to the ground, semi-automatics pressed to my skull. Clicking neon-heels three times, hoverboots burst into life. ‘Tempus fugit!’ the cuckoo called as it sprang over the safety railing into the night, dodging a hail of bullets. Face pressed to the steel floor, all I could see was the bottle, a spume of expensive fizz trickling down its chilled neck.

I spend New Year’s Day in a piss-stinking cell eyed murderously by a Tin-tin line-up of low-lifes, before time, the ultimate attorney, springs me.

Kevan Manwaring ©2016

Part 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

(1 of 12 connected flash fictions written by Kevan Manwaring, dedicated to David Bowie 1947-2016, and published here to mark the first anniversary of the passing of a visionary starman & much-missed musical genius. ‘Look up here, I’m in Heaven…’).

Time Takes a Cigarette 1

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Hogmanay. The Royal Mile is rammed to the ginnels. They’re wavering by the Waverley. Getting bolloxed by John Knox House. Friends. Loved ones. Strangers. Japanese students in fake ginger beards and Disney tartan. The countdown begins. Why do they only begin at ten? Some of us have been counting a lot longer. This. Moment. Has. Happened. Many. Times. Before. The crowd breathes in. The bells. Fireworks ejaculate across the city, brimstone spermatozoa impregnating the sky, if only sheer effort was enough. Thrombotic pensioners hold their shivering pets closer. Snogs spread like a zombie-plague through the crowd. Handshakes and manhugs. For a moment we’re all heroes. We’ve made it this far. Another number can be added to our parenthetical life-span. The daisy-chain of years. We link hands like DNA. It always seems to be the same faces. I swear I recognise half the people here, but I’m useless with names. Auld Lang Syne surges through the crowd on slurred 33 RPM, the time signature erratic. His Master’s Voice has had a few. How much alcohol is flowing through the veins of humankind right now? Am I the only sober person in the Western Hemisphere? A drunken American in a kilt crushes my shoulders, telling me I’m the best friend he never had, or some such. A whisky kiss and third degree Rabbie Burns. I’ve been here too many times. Should old acquaintances be forgot…?

Perhaps they should.

Forward!

(1 of 12 connected flash fictions written by Kevan Manwaring, dedicated to David Bowie 1947-2016, and published here to mark the first anniversary of the passing of a visionary starman & much-missed musical genius. ‘Look up here, I’m in Heaven…’).

Copyright © Kevan Manwaring 2016

Shaking the Silver Branch

 

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The foliate mouth, Kevan Manwaring 2016

 

Twenty five years ago I published my first collection of poetry, Remembrance Days, which celebrated the wheel of the year. It was crudely produced, typed up in upper case (why? Was the shift key on my typewriter stuck?), photocopied and stapled together, and yet three of the poems within it – The Bride of Spring, One with the Land and Summer’s Wake – I still perform today. I had worked late into the night high in the ‘art block’ of Coventry Polytechnic typing it out … one finger at a time (no wonder it took so long!). By the time I was finished I found myself locked in. Everyone else had gone home and I had spend the sleeping under my desk to be awoken in the morning by the cleaner’s vacuum cleaner humming near my head. An auspicious start! My first print run was modest – I printed 20 copies off to force upon friends and family as Yule presents; and have been inflicting similarly ever since, albeit with better production values. Over the following two and half decades I have put together around a dozen such collections – from chapbooks to professionally published volumes. To celebrate this anniversary I have decided to gather together all of my bardic poems together in one volume, entitled Silver Branch, it is to be published by Awen next year. I discovered very early on that few people are willing to read poems from an unknown poet, so the best way to ensure an audience is to perform them – which I started to do at ‘open mics’. I quickly realized that learning them by heart is far more effective than merely reading them out – there is no barrier between you and the audience, and there is a level of kudos about committing work to memory. Folk appreciate the effort. So, the essential criteria for this next collection – what defines them, in my mind, as bardic poems – is the fact they have been performed in public, from memory, at some point. And many were written with that in mind – thus I embedded within them the kind of mnemonic devices that have served bards, scops, skalds, mimesingers, etc, for centuries: alliteration, assonance, consonance, end-rhyme, anaphora, refrains, imagery, and other kinds of oral/aural patterning. Some have been commissioned (e.g. Dragon Dance), some have been composed as part of a book (e.g. The Taliesin Soliloquies, for The Way of Awen), or for a larger collaborative performance (e.g. material for the Fire Springs shows ‘Arthur’s Dream’, ‘Robin of the Wildwood’, and ‘Return to Arcadia’). One sequence won me the Bardic Chair of Caer Badon (Bath) in 1998: Spring Fall – the story of Sulis and Bladud of Bath. They have been written for protest (e.g. ‘The Child of Everything’, performed from memory spontaneously in front of thousands of people at an anti-GMO rally, on a podium by Nelson’s Column, Trafalgar Square); for celebration (e.g. ‘The Wheel of the Rose’, for a friends wedding in a castle in Scotland); for healing (‘Heather’s Spring, for a friend dying of cancer and used several times since); and for ceremony (‘Last Rites for John Barleycorn’, and several others in my previous ‘bardic’ collection, Green Fire). Common themes running through all of the poems include an evocation and honouring of the sacred as manifest in all living things; a celebration of numinous places and remarkable people; the passionate defence of the fragile web of life and the precious glory of this planet we call home; and a mythic sense of negotiating reality.

Poetry has been there from the start of my journey as a writer and it has informed everything I do. First and foremost it is an act of perception – a way of seeing and being in the world. I find it effective at capturing the little epiphanies of existence, moments of heightened awareness, of beauty and truth. It has enriched my prose, my performances and my life.

I look forward to sharing my awen with you. May it inspire your own.

SILVER BRANCH: bardic poetry by Kevan Manwaring forthcoming from Awen Publications 2017

www.awenpublications.co.uk

Snow Falling in a Scottish Wood

(Written while Writer-in-Residence, Hawthornden Castle, Nov-Dec 2015)

 

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After the snow, Hawthornden, K. Manwaring, 2015

 

The news is given casually over dinner.

Not the bombing, but:

‘It is snowing.’ The first

Of the winter. I venture out.

A white and black world

A game of draughts.

The chill exchange of one mass

For another. Boots sink into

Two, three inches. The castle

Is illumined in fairy tale

Perfection. I hold my

Breath, not wanting to

Break the spell.

The forest beckons.

It is night, but the path

Is lit up by itself – silence

Is dislodged, a thousand

Muffled falls, as though

The undergrowth teams

With wildlife. It is the stuff

That panic is made of.

Risk perverse, I stray

beyond the pale.

The forest revels in its own beauty,

Every lineament delineated by

Kohl and crystal. A deadly

Glamour. This femme

Is fatal. An ice-bound cailleach.

The snow falls unconscionably,

White fists of rage,

A furious silence

Demanding to be shattered.

I slip and stumble

On the chancy footing,

Inches from the tumbling

Black Esk precipitously

Below. A splintering crack

Shatters the night –

Wooden lightning, a tree

Toppled by the weight of the

White nothing.

A cave mouth screams,

Empty eye sockets stare

As I pass. My impertinence

Goes unpunished.

The picturesque provides

a pleasant distraction

As bombs begin to fall

In Syria. There, snow

is ash, buildings, homes,

Skin and bone, up in smoke.

Lives vaporized by a passing tornado.

Whitehall shadow falling

In negative, an optioned winter,

Radicalising the earth.

 

Featured in Lost Borders, Chrysalis, 2015

 

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After the walk, Hawthornden, Dec 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running on High

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Running on Malvern Hills solo – 12 miles. Worcs. Beacon  (1394ft),  3rd April 2016

 

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help…

It’s just before sunrise, early January. I yank myself out of bed and pull on my running kit – full leggings, gloves and hat as it’s subzero out there. Selecting Martyn Bennett’s ‘Grit’ on my MP3 player I head out the door and start running. The cold hits like an electric shock. There’s frost on the ground. Hardly any traffic yet so I don’t bother to wait for the green man – I am him, as I strike out along the tow-path, over the railway crossing and up the steep track. I pause to take in the nimbus over Golden Valley, the sun not quite arisen yet. Two horses in the field turn to look over, snorts of breath visible. Rooster announces the day from the top of his hen house. I push on up to the Quiet Lane, then descend through white fields of icy virgin blades. The sun breaches and I feel reborn, sloughing the shadows of winter.

IMMANENT MOMENT COVER IMAGE WINTER LANE BY KEVAN   MANWARING

Winter lane, Kevan Manwaring

I get hooked on the buzz. The promise of endorphins gets me out of bed with the lark. Twenty minute runs grow longer. My first four-miler up on Haresfield Beacon feels exhilarating. To be high up, running on a ridge, drinking in the light and rich air – it makes you feel like you could run for days. It’s the intimacy with nature that draws me – to be up close and personal with the wild, following your instincts through the trees; desire-paths of the fauna; seeing the land wake up, the first shoots, the snowdrops, daffodils, bluebells, and birdsong. As though I was running up the Spring, a Jack-of-the-Woods, sap in the blood, green fire in the head.

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Beware the MAMIL! (Middle-Aged Man In Lycra)

 

Running up a path that is a stream that is a waterfall in the heavy rain. Laughing at the insanity of it all. Slipping over and getting back up again. Splattered and smeared with mud. With scratches, grazes, bruises and blood. War-wounds in peacefulness. Stillness in motion. Zen mind. Wordless. At-one-ment. Every footstep says ‘here’ and ‘now’. Every heartbeat shouts ‘alive!’ Each day’s run pulls a nail out of the coffin.

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By the map of the route – after the Stroud trail. 8 May 2016

Running by yourself. Running with a friend. Fell-runner wisdom, stamina and northern no-nonsense banter. Distances increase as training begins. 4 miles, 6, 8, 10… 12 miles running the Malvern Hills solo. My old ‘long’ runs become short ones. We become acquainted with the hills. New paths discovered. Old ones seen in a new light. Every steep path becomes a training opportunity. Legs become more confident. Fitness improves. The body tones up and the fat burns off. Slowly. Miles convert to inches, ounces, stones. BMI to Bloody Marvellous Insanity.

 

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After the Stroud Trail – Kevan, Brendan & Paul, 8 May 2016

Running alone together. With headphones. Without. In companionable silence. At the speed of chat. Pacing yourself. Pushing yourself. Discovering that you can go further than you think. Enjoying the graft of the hills, the satisfaction of reaching the top. Cruising on the flat. Enjoying the view you’ve earned. Tearing down a hillside. Suicidal tracks. Sweat and a tan. Warm down. Afterglow.

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Trig-Martyr…

Then the day of the race. Suddenly it’s not just some nutty hobby. Crowds of people – from the superfit to the newbies like me. Running clubs, running buddies, lone wolves, silver foxes, dark mares and white hares. The starter’s gun and off you go, dragged along by the lycra shoal. Ignoring the race, and finding your pace.There is always someone faster, someone slower. We all have our own mountains to climb. For me, this was my first half marathon, and getting around was enough of an achievement. The only runner I was competing against was myself. Fourteen hot miles to go yet. Selsey and Minchinhampton await. The slog begins. 23 Degrees and counting. Trying to enjoy the wheeze of it all. Sucking up the pain. The jelly babies. Water guzzle. The slurp and the dash. Slogging through the wall. Wear the limp like a medal. Crossing that finishing line with my running buddy. One small step for man, one giant leap for Manwaring-kind. It was only a half, but it was my first, and I did it. But thank goodness for the physio!

(and for Chantelle & Brendan for getting me going and getting me there!)

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Medallion Man AKA Stroud Trail survivor. May 8 2016

 

 

Bard of Hawkwood 2016

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The winner of the Bard of Hawkwood contest 2016, Anthony Hentschel, sits on the Bardic Chair. Behind stand fellow contestants & judges (from left to right): Katie Lloyd-Nunn, Anthony Nanson, Chantelle Smith, Dominic James, Steve Wheeler, Richard Maisey.

Founded by Kevan Manwaring in 2014, the Bardic Chair of Hawkwood is part of a modern bardic tradition stretching across Britain and beyond. The Bardic Chair belongs to its community, the winner is its steward, and the gorsedd (i.e. the bardic circle which supports it) its guardians. It is a celebration of local distinctiveness, and a platform for creative expression. 

The 2nd Bard of Hawkwood contest took place on May Day bank holiday Monday at Hawkwood College’s lovely annual Open Day. The dark clouds gathered but didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. However, we wisely chose to hold the contest inside, as opposed to the front lawn where it has been held (and in 2014, announced) in previous years. This was a smart move as we had a full house in the Sitting Room as everyone piled in out of the rain! The judges this year were outgoing bard, Dominic James, folksinger Chantelle Smith, and our ‘chairman’ Richard Maisey (who kindly lent his original Eisteddfod chair from 1882 for the contest, kickstarting the whole thing off). They each took a turn, showing they know their stuff – with Chantelle getting everyone to singalong – then the contestants were introduced and took turns to perform, according to lots. I conjured up some awen with an excerpt from my poem ‘Dragondance’, then the bardic gloves were off. First up was storyteller, Anthony Nanson (author of Gloucestershire Folk Tales and co-author of Gloucestershire Ghost Tales with Kirsty Hartsiotis), who performed a gripping tale from New Caledonia with great gusto, voices, and gestures. The expressions of the younger members of the audience were priceless! Next up was creative powerhouse Katie Lloyd-Nunn, who shared a lovely song with a heartfelt introduction and accompanying statement. Katie was followed with dignity by Peter Adams, well-known local homeopath, activist and poet, who shared his wise owl poem complete with night-sounds! The penultimate performer was wordsmith Steve Wheeler, with a very engaging and amusing story about his childhood home and that yearning is shared through the generations. Finally, we had Ruskin Mill’s own Anthony Hentschel, who performed a barnstormer poem on the theme (The Way Home). From toddlers to senior citizens, the audience were mesmerized throughout. The judges left to deliberate and I MCed some impromptu floor spots. We had an impressive green man praise song from our resident jack-of-the-woods, Paul; a punchy poem from Jehanne Mehta; a bold contribution from Gill; and I shared my ‘Robin Hood’ poem, Heartwood. Then the judges summed up, praising each of the contestants in turn, before announcing the winner with a drum roll from me: Anthony Hentschel, who had impressed them all with his tour-de-force. The awen had been clearly with him, and the choice seemed to be popular.

Bardic Chair of Hawkwood 1882The new bard was robed, and holding the silver branch of office, sat in the Bardic Chair while everyone blessed him with three awens – and so we ended on a note of harmony. Anthony Hentschel offered a Shakespearean sonnet as his winning piece, and the spirit of The Bard was very much with us (along with the shade of Blake). Anthony will now serve as the Bard of Hawkwood for a year and a day, honouring his bardic statement, and choosing the theme for next year, when the contest will be once more held at Hawkwood’s Open Day. Anyone who lives in the Five Valleys around Stroud can enter an original poem, song or story on the theme. Details will be announced by October 31st. The Hawkwood College website will post information. An anthology will be produced of the contest. All contestants and judges from this contest and previous years are invited to be part of an ongoing bardic circle. Anybody else who wishes to be involved are asked to get in touch.

Finally, the winner of the Bard of Hawkwood 2016, Anthony Hentschel, gave the following statement:

I believe, as John Cowper Powys put it, that “Man should be capable of believing Everything and Nothing.” Thus the rational insights of Sam Harris or Christopher Hitchens and the mystical insights of Rumi or Llewelyn Powys are to be equally applauded. The title Bard of Hawkwood will hopefully furnish me with the confidence to carry the living Word of Poetry into local schools, prisons and Retirement Homes. If anyone out there would like to invite me, and perhaps some of my friends, to such institutions, please get in touch via my email: anthonyhentschel@hotmail.com.

Awen for All

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Founder & Grand Bard of Hawkwood, Kevan Manwaring 2nd May 2016

http://www.hawkwoodcollege.co.uk/

The Bardic Handbook: complete manual for the 21st Century bard 

by Kevan Manwaring, Gothic Image, 2006

http://www.kevanmanwaring.co.uk/the-bardic-handbook.html

 

Stroud Out Loud!

On Friday I launched Stroud’s new monthly spoken word showcase, which I called Stroud Out Loud! (making a neat acronym, SOL!). This has replaced the Story Supper I ran at Black Book Cafe for a couple of years. Everything has its season, and it was time for a fresh start. Perhaps buoyed up by the Spring tide (as witnessed last weekend when I went to view the Severn Bore – the 2nd highest in the world) there was a surge of new enthusiasm for this venture, with old and new faces turning up. I won’t risk trying to name everyone as I’m bound to miss (and therefore offend) someone, but there was a great cross-section of poets, storytellers, singers and musicians. We crammed into the cafe in the back of the Subscription Rooms, here in Stroud – called Mr Twitchett’s after a caterer who died apparently on site. I wondered if our bardic efforts would placate or disturb his spirit, but apart from a broken spotlight and the background hum of some filter above the bar, there were no real problems. The ambience was light-hearted and pleasant, the contributions of good quality, and the audience seemed engaged and amused. It felt like a good start, and the next one is planned for the 24th April – last Friday of the month. So plenty of time to polish your party piece!