Ellipsis 1

Ellipsis has gone to the printer! The first volume of the series will be launched at the end of July, with readings by the three authors: Frances Gapper, Bethan Stevens and Ruth Valentine.

Mirabeau Performance

Mirabeau went down a storm at our first London performance. One audience member was heard to compare the concoction of words and chords to chamber music, though our final number, Richard Price's 'Last Train', owed more to the Rolling Stones than Schubert. The compositions of the talented Caroline Trettine (above) added depth to the simplest verses and Ian Kearey's light-fingered guembe accompaniment to my poem 'Astrolatry' (a translation of a ballad by Sorley MacLean) evoked the magic of space travel.

After Light at Bookartbookshop

As the sun went down over Hoxton Square, new poems appeared in the window of the Bookartbookshop. Many thanks to everyone who came along and enjoyed the exhibition.

After Light Private View

Fashion Photography: Brett
Books: Model's own

Spring

Bookmarks

I'm taking part in 'Bookmarks VII: Infiltrating the Library System' organised by The Centre for Fine Print Research at the University of the West of England. This an annual series of international distributions of bookmarks made by book artists.

I began my research by interviewing Peter Scott, bookseller and bibliophile. Peter has amassed a collection of thousands of ephemeral items found inside books, from the common faux-leather tasseled National Trust souvenirs to unexpected items such as army cap tallies, slices of bacon and bus tickets.

As Peter says in the interview, which can be downloaded as a podcast from the title link above, "Bookmarks, whether they’re ready-made or serendipitous, make an interesting study on their own because they are part of – not of bibliography – but of readership – the actual use of the book."

Thin Ice

Snow is a fascinating subject for a writer. A child's plaything, a scientist's study and (as the January storm showed us) a force capable of turning urban lives upside-down. Looking back through my poems, I’m surprised to see how many times themes of snow and ice emerge. There's an old poem, ‘Remembering Snow’, telling of a sudden spring storm in Massachusetts, and recently a ‘Winter Villanelle’ describing a tense night walk down an icy road. There's even a long narrative about the unfortunate Captain Oates, written long before I realised that I would be going to the Pole too.

But what if my powers of description fail me when faced with the immense glacial landscapes of Greenland? How can the English vocabulary, forged to suit a slight winter chill, possibly do the job? I’ve heard elusive rumours about the number of Eskimo words for snow. In the Inuktun dictionary of the northern Greenlandic dialect, the words for ice include kaniq, qirihuq, qirititat, nilak, nilak, nilaktaqtuq, hiku, hiquaq, hikuaqtuaq, hikurhuit, hikuqihuq, hikuliaq, maniraq, hikup hinaa, qainnguq, manillat, kassut, iluliaq, ilulissirhuq, auktuq, quihaq, hirmiijaut. Rime frost, freshwater ice, sea ice, thin ice, ice on the inside of the tent, pack ice, new ice, a smooth expanse of ice, the ice edge, solid ice attached to the shore, hummocky ice, pressure ridges, pieces of floating ice, icebergs in the water, melting ice…

As Gretel Erlich points out in her remarkable memoir This Cold Heaven, about her life among the Inuit hunters, highly specific language is needed when identifying ice or snow. When you are travelling over ice sheets at speed in a sled, the type of ice means the difference between life and death – skimming and sinking. The ice is your runway, your drink, the shelter where you build an igloo when it’s time to sleep. It is even the temporary record of your travels, as Erlich notes when describing a trip on a hunter's sled: "The Inuit people never had a written language. Now the whip, trailing behind the sled, made marks in the snow that looked calligraphic in the loose running style the Chinese call ‘grass script’." Will the ice be only a temporary trace of my travels, or will I record it? One thing is sure, a poet has to survive by language, just as the hunter does.

Thanks to Clare Carter, who was inspired by a residency at Upernavik, for the photo.