Jane Monson's Speaking without Tongues, second selection, and launch tonight in Cardiff

Tonight former student Jane Monson launches her first collection, Speaking without Tongues (consisting entirely of prose poems), while Alison Bielski launches her latest, one of our skylarks, at the Wales Millennium Centre at 7 p.m. The event is free--say hello if you join me!

Here's a second selection from Jane's collection.

Kierkegaard’s Chairs

When Kierkegaard was eight, his father made his son eavesdrop on the conversations of his dinner guests, then sit in each of their chairs after they had left. Nicknamed ‘the fork’ at home, because that was the object he named when asked what he’d like to be, the seated boy would be tested. The father wanted to hear each of the guest’s arguments and thoughts through the mouth of his son, as though the boy was not just one man, but as many as ten. Almost word for word, ‘the fork’ recounted what these men had said, men who were among the finest thinkers in the city. The tale is chilling somehow. Not least because his father at the same age, raised his fists to the desolate sky of Jutland Heath, and cursed God for his suffering and fate. Not least because of the son sitting in each of those chairs, their backs straight and high, rising behind him like headstones, while the words of others poured from his mouth, his father at the head of the table, testing his son like God. Not least because when asked why he wanted to be a fork, Kierkegaard answered: “Well, then I could spear anything I wanted on the dinner table.” And if he was chased? “Well then,” he’d responded, “then I’d spear you.”

Jane Monson

Speaking without Tongues

Cinnamon, 2010

Mulfran, a new poetry press based in Cardiff

I write this more as a notice than a recommendation, as I've only read one of their works, Maureen Jivani's Insensible Heart, and that in manuscript, as Maureen is a friend. But it's a cause for celebration when a new poetry press starts up, especially one publishing first books and pamphlets, encouraging emerging poets, who need the support so desperately. I'll be watching and reading, and in the meantime, good luck Mulfran! Their website is located here.

"Cycle on the Pavement" by Nicholas Whitehead

Following my and Vuyelwa Carlin's readings on the First Thursday series this past week at the Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff, there was an open mic, in which the following poem was read. Thanks to the author for allowing me to share it. Americans might want to keep in mind that in the UK pavement is the equivalent of sidewalk.

Cycle on the Pavement

You want to get from A to B,

Don’t want to drive or pay.

Don’t want to cycle on the road

Yet still, there is a way.

Cycle on the pavement!

No cars, no traffic lights.

No one-way signs, no dotted lines,

A cyclist’s delight!

But even on the pavement,

Cycling’s not without its cares.

Your route involves pedestrians

Who think the pavement’s theirs!

They’re living in society

They really should get real.

Faster is the master here,

And foot gives way to wheel.

You’ve got a flashing headlight

And a helmet for your head.

Yellow, hi-viz cycle clips,

And back light flashing red.

If they can’t see you coming,

They must be bloody blind.

There’s someone with a white stick there.

[SMACK], Well, never mind.

It’s actually illegal,

It’s in the Highway Code.

It spells out very clearly

You should cycle on the road.

But human laws don’t matter,

You can break them with impunity.

Environmental friendliness

Gives you complete immunity.

So cycle on the pavement,

With a smirk across your face.

Cycle on the pavement,

And fuck the human race.

Nicholas Whitehead