Some say life is a rollercoaster, I say it is a series of rocket launches right now. Much upward motion, not a lot of time on the ground.

 

I spent the weekend at the Ledbury Poetry Festival and had that familiar experience of being sensitised to poetry to the extent that I spent several of Saturday’s readings in tears. Good tears, not bad ones. My own reading on Friday morning - which went well, was thoroughly eclipsed for me by other experiences during the weekend.  Bloodaxe, the poetry publishers premiered a film they’ve made to go with a new book. Thirty poets interviewed, and asked to read poems in their own homes, each reading a poem (three hours long when you buy it, about forty minutes for the premiere). It was as if those close-ups were like the poets talking directly to me. In the poems went like a shaft of light to the soul. Oh yes. And then there was this older poet, Samuel Menashe, 83, who won a ‘Neglected Masters’ award from the American Poetry Foundation and had come all the way to Ledbury to read his poems to us. A constant presence at the festival, not just in the readings, but out of them, he is an example of a life devoted to poetry, not fame or prestige. Someone who refused to join the establishment or academia and has finally been given his due. The work is beautiful and the man is full of grace. Of course I cried. At the end he thanks the organisers and told us this was his swansong, which I suppose it was.

 

Of course I enjoyed spending time in hospitality, spending time  some much admired poets - Gillian Allnutt, my dear friend Penelope Shuttle, Blake Morrison, the gorgeous Samuel Menashe, Jackie Kay - fantastic. Whenever Penny was present and someone asked me ‘Who are you?’, Penny would say ‘Jacqueline won the Ledbury prize’. Which was very kind of her; not poetry etiquette for me to say it myself,  That’s what you call a friend, isn’t it?

 

What finally did it for me was the Extreme Poetry Workshop run by Dave Reeves of Raw Edge. It was an all night walk in (or should I say ‘over’?)  the Malvern Hills, with poetry stops on the way. Started in the dark, watched the dawn, kept climbing up and down, up and down. Our guide called each uphill part a ‘pull’, not a climb. I think this was to make us feel better. I did make notes; no idea yet what will come out of it in the way of poetry, but I’m certain something will. Something of the spiritual in it, as well as something profoundly earthy. The sound of your own footsteps, your own breath, the wind, the birds at dawn. And the meaning of the absence, or presence of light. The kind of light. Torch or beacon, moon or sun or stars. You see, I’m off already ... The ache in the feet, the joy of having the world to ourselves in the early hours before anyone’s awake. Unforgettable.

 

I was no use when I came home on Sunday evening and still reeling ...