“Smaller than Melville’s white whatever … it’s just a dog, it’s not a whale.”
“Smaller than Melville’s white whatever … it’s just a dog, it’s not a whale.”
This be the verse, by Philip Larkin.
Liverpool poet Rebecca Goss, whose work I admire, is to be interviewed on Woman’s Hour on Friday this week helping to raise awareness of congenital heart disease. She writes:
To mark the start of Children’s Heart Week which begins on Saturday, I will be on Woman’s Hour this Friday, May 8th, BBC Radio 4 at 10am.
I’m hoping to raise awareness of congenital heart disease by reading some of the poems I’ve written about my daughter Ella. Ella was born with a severe heart defect in 2007 and I’ll be talking about her short but incredible life.
There will be a Children’s Heart Federation appeal on Radio 4, on Sunday May 10th: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00k7qy8
Thank you for listening if you can.
A number of my Ella poems are available to read in the latest issue of Shadowtrain magazine.
Children’s Heart Federation
1 in every 133 children is born with a heart defect. Our vision is of a society in which all children with congenital heart disease can live life to the full because their medical, educational and social needs have been met. Charity Registration No 1120557 http://www.childrens-heart-fed.org.uk/
The programme will be available for on ‘listen again’ for seven days from Friday and as a podcast.
Last week Moira at Vulpes Libris wrote a terrific review of Elmet, a collection of poems by Ted Hughes with accompanying photographs by Fay Godwin. I owned a copy of this book–or rather its earlier incarnation–when I lived in West Yorkshire in the 1980s and this review convinced me to buy another. What I love about the place is perfectly captured in the book: the harshness of the landscape and calm domesticity of the villages and towns. These are solid, practical places, built for a purpose in a landscape that provided raw materials for industry, but is not kind to humans:
The Calder Valley in West Yorkshire (just in West Yorkshire … although it flirts dangerously with Lancashire) was carved from the local millstone grit by ice, wind and rain. When man first arrived in the area he inhabited the higher ground, along the spring lines. With the coming of the Industrial Revolution - and the industries that needed water – he migrated downwards, leaving the old villages deserted and the old dwellings decaying on the hillsides. The valley bottom filled with people, mills, chimneys, and cramped, overcrowded housing – all fighting for space between the canal, the river, the road and the railway that weave through it.
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of …