#but that's why we have Montale i suppose

[mishkakagehishka]

Love the way hermetic poetry was like all about resistenza and no war, no regimes, no repression. And then one of the Main Three poets was a known fascist

[murfpersonalblog]

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IWTV S2 Musings - Romania BTS deets! (Pt2: Tentative Timeline Revisions again)

So, a few days ago I stumbled upon Carol Cutshall's Instagram posts about Daciana, Emilia, etc, which I discussed in Pt1. I didn't have the brain capacity, time, space or energy to also address this other post she made even earlier, back in July, which also includes Louis & Claudia's Eastern European itinerary!

The text is SMALL AF so I can barely read anything, but already I see major discrepancies:

Everything up until 1944 makes sense AFAIK, it's not contradicting any of the dates mentioned in 2x1 which I laid out here (x x):

I REALLY wish we could read that list in full, cuz I had wondered what was going on with the Nazis calling them "Black Ukranians;" and if they were trying to enter OR leave Ukraine.

Funny enough, AMC seems to have forgotten that in 1x4 Claudia's diary also says they were in Romania on September 8, 1941--not that that means they couldn't've been there; just that the itinerary doesn't mention it (was that a mistake/oversight, or was the itinerary made before 1x4 was written/aired? 🤔).

So yeah, I'm fine with the 1941-1944 dates.

So here's another revised timeline for anyone interested:

(EDIT: I dunno if we should consider this (old? obsolete?) itinerary as CANON, since the show itself never mentions them in any of these places/dates--this is a truly meta revision; so I'm keeping my original timeline as-is until we're told differently.)

Apparently, the "circuitous routes around the mad army" Louis said they traveled took them from:

Bouras, Bulgaria: they arrived via boat from Greece (so they probably crossed the Mediterranean via the Straits of Gibraltar, and bypassed Western Europe entirely)

Winter 1941 - Crimea, Ukraine: went northeast, crossing the Black Sea

Fall/Winter 1942 - Roslov, Russia: northeast

Winter 1943 - Kiev, Ukraine: northwest. Something about a church, but I can't read the rest *squints.*

Spring 1944 - Tiraspol, Moldavia: was the "ruined castle" supposed to be Cezare Romulo's!? that's super interesting if so, cuz that means at some point he lived in Romania near Daciana, to have killed that circus troupe IN SIBIU (Romania) & stolen their show bear, LOL. Why did he move to Moldavia? My headcanon says he wanted independence (like the IRL Moldavans), to break away from the Romanians/covens in the west and do his own thing out east--Daciana said "he was always a droll one." 👀 Vampire beef!? 😂🤣 Regardless, this might support my suspicion that although AMC filmed Cezare's castle at Tocnik, that was just for convenience's sake--we're probably not supposed to take any contextual clues from the IRL castle, the way I did for Daciana. So Cezare could be from ANYWHERE, really. Very cool!

Spring/Summer 1944 - Botosani, Romania: northwest

But it's as soon as we hit 1945 that a few snags appear.

While it's very cool that we now have an exact location for where Emilia's factory & Daciana's home would've been located (Biertan, Romania--so I was right that AMC was pulling inspo from Biertan!), there's a BIG problem:

Louis & Claudia couldn't've been in/entering Biertan, Romania in Fall 1945, and in France's Saint-Jean Lespinasse in Winter 1945, based on what we saw in the episode itself--namely:

In 2x1 Lou & Claudia were on the convoy delivering the Venus de Milo to Paris, which was already back in the Louvre by July 2, 1945. It had been hidden away with the rest of the Louvre's art for safekeeping during WWII in Château de Valençay (x x)--which is in a totally different commune from the Saint-Jean commune (which is much farther south). But the truck they were on would've still been IN France during the Spring/Summer 1945, NOT way out in Eastern Europe during the Fall/Winter 1945.

(What's interesting is that a famous art piece was indeed (temporarily) hidden in Saint-Jean, at the Château de Montal, but it wasn't Venus de Milo. It was THE Mona Lisa, which was also returned to the Louvre even earlier, on June 16, 1945.)

So there must've been a change at some point where the writers decided to add Venus and just ignore this itinerary--they even make a point to have Louis reunite with Venus later on in 2x4:

So it's not as if it was just an accident that Venus kept showing up in post-war Paris--just as Louis was starting a new romance with Armand under THE Goddess of Love/Lust's auspices.

So this just REALLY make me wonder WHEN that itinerary was mapped out, wrt to what we actually got on screen and in the S2 transcript (and ofc whatever was going on with the writer's strike); cuz it just doesn't make chronological sense to hold those last 2 dates at face value; they're just wrong. :\

*sigh* This is equal parts fun & frustrating; AMC, have mercy~! 😅

[missfisherchallenges]

MFMM Year of Quotes – November Challenge

  This month’s theme is Male Authors

(I know, I know Mac. Just drink the whiskey.)

The quotes this month are:

“My life, I ask of you no stable contours, plausible faces, property. Now in your restless circling, wormwood and honey have the same savor. The heart that disdains all motion occasionally is convulsed by a jolt. As sometimes the stillness of the country sounds with a rifle shot." --Montale

'I am careful.’ 'No, you’re not…Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.’ 'I hope I never will,’ she answered. 'I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.’ ― F. Scott FITZGERALD, The Great Gatsby

The world was not wheeling anymore. It was just very clear and bright and inclined to blur at the edges.― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

The collection is called Male Authors (MFMMNov2018) and will be open from today until December 1st when the next challenge is announced.

As always, everyone is invited to participate–there are no length limits or rules, just add your fic, fanart, or meta inspired by this month’s challenge to the collection or tag @missfisherchallenges in a Tumblr post sometime between now and closing. We will endeavour to reblog any challenge responses we are tagged in. But most of all, have fun!

[caffeinewitchcraft]

I found some of my writing from 2006/2007. I was in Junior High (around 13 years old) back then and this is literally the first book--not a short story or fanfiction-- that I ever started.

I’m sharing this because a lot of people have been sending me messages lately that disparage their writing and I hate that. Writing is a process and we learn as we do it. I spent hours on this story, eating up my daily computer time (one hour) to painstakingly type this up. Each page felt like a victory and each sentence felt like The Most Important Sentence on the face of the planet. It was hard and it kept being hard for years.

I loved every second of it. That’s why, even though a part of me reads this and cringes, most of me reads this and admires the person I was to even start. And I’m really proud of how far my writing has developed (though clearly I still don’t know how to use a semicolon!)

Without further ado, I give you the first two chapters of my first novel Fairyblood Discovered, a story about a girl whose family has kept more than a few secrets about her birthright from her. Under the cut, of course.

Chapter 1: Jennipher Linson (a.k.a-ME)

           “Jennipher Linson!” I quickly jerked back to reality whereas I was daydreaming about summer vacation that was just around the corner.  Actually the end of school will be in two days time.  My evil teacher insists that we study till the very, very end of school meaning 2:55 Friday.  Whoopee no finalizing party of 8th grade.

           Mrs. Roberts was glaring coldly at me, tapping her long rose colored fingernails on her classic oak desk menacingly.  God, why did she have to place me in the back?  Now everyone was turned around in their seat staring at my lanky features.  If I was in the front row no one would be turned around so I could convince myself that all of room 22 was simply doing their work and not sticking their stuck up noses in my business.  Besides, I wasn’t the only person in this eighth grade class who got in trouble and yet they all seemed to turn only when I was.  Of course that could be because I just always seem to get caught when no one else does.

           “Why aren’t you paying attention?” she continued suspiciously.  This caught me by surprise, Mrs. Roberts never and I mean NEVER gave me a chance to explain myself before.  I didn’t have a lie to tell her (one she would believe anyway) so I told her the readiest answer I had, the truth.

           “Well, ummm… you see,” I babbled lamely, “I was thinking about the ever approaching summer vacation that is coming up.  My family and me-”

“My family and I” interrupted teacher’s pet, Jared Montale, snidely.  Mrs. Roberts rewarded him with an approving.

“Yeah, whatever.  My family and I are going on a Caribbean cruise like people on TV!” Everybody just stared at me in astonishment.  This was a huge deal, vacations were expensive, especially when you go out of the country and we were going to Jamaica.

My now positively glowering teacher spat how I could possibly think that my vacation plans were more important than today’s history lesson as usual.  Of course I told her that I didn’t think that. What else was I supposed to say; yes I do think that my vacation plans are more important (which they are to me).

“You will be spending tomorrow inside Jennipher. Let me see… that will make it your 3rd day this week meaning no free P.E on Friday.”  I could have sworn she was holding back an evil laugh.

I groaned inwardly.  Don’t get me wrong, I hate PE.  I mean who would want to play games called sparkle or ping paddle besides Prissy Anne’s girly gang?  No, what made me mentally groan was that I had to tell my parent when I was already toeing “the line”.  For those who don’t know, “the line” does not exist, parents just want you to behave and when you “cross the line” they don’t know what to do for a few minutes, which are crammed with fast thinking.  It’s a sad, pathetic, and empty threat but what’s even more pathetic is that these people teach us and will look over our shoulders for the remainder of eternity. How depressing.

Quickly, I buried my nose in the beat up old textbook Garden Jr. High had given me at the beginning of the horribly long school year.  I could sense the eyes of my entire class boring into the top of my head no doubt hoping for the latest comeback a student dared to say to the teacher. Horrible gossipers.

Oh, well, no body cared about what I do at this school since I have no friends here except for Jane.  Jane is absolutely fabulous; smart, funny, reliable, and witty-the works basically.

BBBBRRIINNGG!!!!!!  Yes! Teachers here switch off P.E duty and today my absolute favorite teacher had the responsibility.  Mrs. Edwards, the advanced math teacher, said we would be doing something new and relaxing today in honor of our completing 8th grade.

God knows I could relax; school is a living hell when you’re in Mrs. Roberts’s class.  That woman will never be happy, she picks out the silliest thing to fuss about; you’re not sitting right, your pencil is too dull, you took too long to sharpen it, basically everything.  Plus, my mom has gotten into the annoying habit of asking if anything unusual had happened at school that day, and for some freakish reason I feel as if something is amiss whatever that is supposed to mean.  See I’m even talking like a wacko!  If I ever end up in jail my cell shall be padded.

Hurriedly I gathered up my things, you never, EVER want to be the last person in Mrs. Roberts’s class for the reason that the above criticism will then be directed at you full force.  That sounds so fun; too bad I won’t have time to hear it ever.

The walk down the tiled hallway was short, each step escalating my happiness to be graduating; finally I reached the girls’ locker room heavy oak door.

Suddenly the door swung open, nearly smacking me in the face, and Jane peered out at me, her face splitting into a dimpled grin when she saw I was here.  It was weird, Jane and I each had the same slender body, dark hair, and bluish eyes and we aren’t even related!  Well we do have differences like I have pale skin she has olive, different attitudes, face structure, eyes (hers are blue-green mine have an icy light blue surrounded in a calm blue color), and hair shade (mine is really black hers is dark brown).  Okay, not that weird but when we met in Pre-K we thought it was.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, relief flooding her face, “I thought Mrs. Roberts had given you detention or something.”

“Nope, I’m here.  She saved no P.E for tomorrow, thank god.”  I followed Jane into the locker room and changed into my P.E outfit, a white shirt and blue shorts.  The only reason we had to wear uniforms for P.E is because Anne’s group stupidly wore Barbie outfits the first day of school.  Let’s just say mini skirts aren’t for doing the splits in.  It was hilarious.

After I was done changing Jane practically pushed me into the Gym, we were the only freaking ones there.  Presently our glacier-paced classmates found their way onto the wooden-floor of the Gym. Gosh what do they do after class? - attach anvils to their feet?

“Come on now! Before I make you all run today! The only people who seem to like P.E were here 5 ½ minutes ago!  Now hustle before I make you run laps!” Mrs. Edwards exclaimed giving Jane and me a wink. That’s another thing about Mrs. Edwards she didn’t hate me like Mrs. Roberts did.  Of course I wasn’t teachers pet but then again I was exceptionally gifted in math so that helped me get on her good side.  Then again she seemed to like everyone to a certain degree when they paid attention in class.

Well this statement from Mrs. Edwards made everyone drag their anvils a little faster so that in a minute or so Mrs. Edwards was halfway through attendance. Our school is overly strict and makes teachers take attendance for every class to make sure no one arrives late or doesn’t arrive at all.

Mrs. Edwards walked over to a box gone unnoticed by the rest of the class.  From it our teacher pulled out a couple foot long sticks with flowing ribbons of all different colors attached to the ends.

“We are going to do Ribbon Dancing today class.  I will give you no instructions trusting you will wield this privilege responsibly,” our math teacher said eyeing Nick’s gang severely.  A good thing to since they had been talking about strangling and tying people up with them.

Then Mrs. Edwards had us stand single file and started handing out the ribbons making Nick’s gang take the pink ones when the fought each other for the remaining black one.  My ribbon was a deep blood red with flickers of golden yellow and falls orange when it caught the light.

When Jane had gotten a relaxing blue colored one I started waving mine awkwardly. I watched my ribbon intently as it twirled and floated through the air, the blood red changing to a fiery red color and the gold to orange when it caught the sun.

I’d never seen anything like it; the material must be layered for it to change so many different colors.  I rubbed the ribbon and sure enough several layers of cloth separated within it.

Just like me I thought everyone wants me to be the same as everyone else but I don’t want to. I want to do something no ones done before, regular life is too boring.  Wow that was a sappy thought; it’s just a ribbon on a stick for crying out loud!

Suddenly I got a huge burst of something that made me feel like a volcano was about to erupt inside me.  I nearly exploded with the force but in the end just fell to the floor writhing in agony.  Several worried faces appeared in front of me, but the only one I could make out was Jane because a second later she nearly fell on me as she hurried to see if I was all right. The last thing I was aware of was the whole faculty staring after me as the paramedics carted me off to the ambulance.  Then I mercifully passed out.

Chapter 2: Boarding School?!?!?!!!!!!

            When I awoke everything was foreign and hazy and after a quick survey of the room I was in I learned three things a) I was at the hospital b) I was still in my gym clothes and c) Jane’s parents, my entire class, Jane, and my mom was here.  I laid back into the hospital bed and listened to what must have been a lesson. Figures, Mrs. Edwards had brought the class to the hospital to learn about procedures here.

           Vaguely I wondered what I was even doing here and received the answer when I sat up and every bone in my body seemed to be bruised.  Recollection flooded through me, but before I could ponder what that heat stroke was Jane looked around at me just as Anne squealed, “She’s awake!”  

           I definitely could have done without that earsplitting announcement, my ears are really sensitive at the moment and in approximately half a second my mom was nearly suffocating me with hugs and exclamations of worry.  Several nurses rushed in then and I understood why; I was attached to hospital monitors and the sudden lack of air must have sent the main monitors to sound an alarm.  Quickly the nurses untangled my parent from me before I had to make my stay even longer.

           “You could have died!” cried my Mom being over dramatic as usual.

           “The only way I was going to die was when you nearly suffocated me, Mom!” I exclaimed.  I really only said this so she knew that I was alright even though I felt as if I had just been hit by a mobile home with the whole family inside.

           Well it worked any way, she managed to give a watery smile and go off to have a meeting with the doctor who was beckoning her into the room across the hall.

           Jane came over then and handed me a glass of water, her face almost as pale as mine usually was.

           “The doctor doesn’t know what happened in the gym but he ruled out a stroke when he found you as healthy as a mountain climber,” Jane explained as I sucked down the water she had handed me. “It was really scary after you left in the ambulance, the school had all of us come here to get check-ups just in case we have what you have.  At first we couldn’t see you because, you know, Quarantine but then they figured out there was nothing wrong with you so the whole class came here to get out of the way. No one can leave yet though because the doctors want to see if any of us develop anything.  We’re basically in Quarantine with very loose restrictions.  Actually we did get to go home to go to sleep but we had to promise to come back the next day.  Since most parents couldn’t take their kids here it has become sort of a field trip.”

           “So how long have I been out?”

           “Well that’s the strange part,” Jane replied,” with nothing wrong with you, you’ve been out for 26 hours from 9:00a.m.yesterday till 11:00am today! The doctors have tried electrocution at a minor level, loud noises, moving you, and even ice cold water!”

           Suddenly Jane seemed nervous, like she was going to tell me something that neither of us will like.

           “And another thing, Jen, another lady came apparently from a boarding school and checked all of us out to.  She kept waiving her pointer at us like we were all in trouble.  Later Mrs. Hawkins, that’s her name, pulled me aside and started talking about a change in both of our lives. Well, now we’re going to her boarding school apparently on full scholarship and our parents have agreed!” Jane now looked close to tears.  I could totally relate, I didn’t want to leave my family for long periods of time. Plus the holidays are almost here and there was that cruise I was supposed to be going on! It so figures, finally when my parents are going to take me someplace cool outside the state of California I can’t go.

           Trying to make light of this ugly turn of events I asked Jane where the school was, expecting for her to say New York or London or something.  No need to say I was wrong though.

           “Peru,” Jane said looking as though she just realized how far and remote that was from Santa Barbara.

“Well this caps it all!” I exclaimed, “Out of everything our parents have done, you know like kissing in public, this is the worst!  How could they send us off to some old school without our consent or acknowledgement beforehand?!”

           Now Jane really was crying.  She and I had different ways of handling things, I used anger as a shield and she let everything out.  Sometimes Jane was as fragile as an eggshell.

           “It’s all right Jane, at least we’ll be together,” I said trying to comfort my now positively sobbing companion.  Slowly her sobs dwindled into nothingness and she looked up at me her face tear-stained with rivers of water flowing down her cheeks.

           “How can you be so calm and optimistic when we are going to be leaving our home for a year?” Jane said in a strangled voice.

           “Easy, can you tell me what you have accomplished crying besides getting my bed wet?”  I asked, hoping to distract her from our current situation.   Actually I was screaming and crying inside but I’d learned since my dad died that crying didn’t do anything.   This was found out after I spent 2 days in my room sobbing my eyes out trying to bring him back.

           This worked to some degree meaning at least getting her to stop wailing but not stop letting the tears falling onto my bed thick and fast.

           “I guess”, she replied “but boarding school? What have we ever done to them? We’re straight A students, have never gone to Juvenile hall and never lie for no good reason!”

           Jane had a point there. “You’re right,” I said “I am going to talk to my mom about this and we’re not going if I can help it!”

             All right, I’ll admit that the talk with my parent didn’t go down well, actually like a lethal hurricane. Mom broke down and told me to not talk about matters I didn’t understand and that this is for my own good.  She started yelling around the time I had presented Jane’s idea and the fact that the family cruise we were going on was coming up.  Well anyway, the stupid hospital released me, Jane and I are packing clothes and other items into our new trunks, and our flight is scheduled for tomorrow at noon.  My mom felt guilty finally and is sending me off with $1000 and a promise to send me my $25 allowance every month.  Like that’s going to help me forgive her completely for taking away my once in a lifetime chance of relaxation out at sea and giving me extra school in PERU.  Truthfully I’m considering forgiving her.  Come on! She gave me a thousand bucks though I agree that this is totally unfair.  Never mind this is still the worst thing she has ever done!  I mean she really usually give spends more on me than that.  And what about Thanksgiving and Christmas, are we giving up those family traditions?

            A negative bonus, Jane and I don’t even have the same flight.  I now have to risk sitting next to someone who can’t keep their fat to themselves.  This totally sucks.  If I ever see my parent again alive, they’re dead meat.

[End Excerpt]

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Julian Stannard

is a poet and a university teacher. He obtained his PhD. from UEA and is now a Reader in English and Creative writing at the University of Winchester, where he is the Programme Leader for the MA in Creative and Critical writing. He writes critical studies – his most recent book was about the work of Basil Bunting   (http://writersandtheirwork.co.uk/index.php/author/authors-s-u/201-stannard-julian) – as well as reviews, essays, and poetry. His most recent collection is What were you thinking? (http://www.cbeditions.com/stannard.html)(CB Editions, 2016). His work appears variously in TLS, Poetry, Manhattan Review, Poetry Review, Poetry London, Spectator, Guardian, Telegraph, The Honest Ulsterman, The Forward Book of Poetry (2017) and Nuova Corrente (Italy). An essay on the poetry of Leonard Cohen appears in Spirituality and Desire in Leonard Cohen’s Songs and Poems (Cambridge Scholars, 2017.) He is at present writing a study of British and American poetry entitled Anglo-American Conversations in Poetry: 1910-2015 (Peter Lang). He has read at various literary festivals, including the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, as well as literary venues in the UK, mainland Europe and the USA – including London, Amsterdam, Utrecht, Paris, Rome, Prague, Genoa, Munich, New York and Boston. He teaches for the Poetry School (London) and is often invited to organise and lead workshops in a freelance capacity. He is both a Hawthornden and Bogliasco Fellow and has been a visiting Erasmus scholar at Charles University Prague and the University of Warsaw. Presently he is an External Examiner for the MA in Creative Writing at Birmingham City University and has been nominated for both Forward and Pushcart Prizes for his poetry. From 1984 to 2005 he lived for long periods in Italy, where he taught English and American Literature at the University of Genoa. He has written poetry about that mysterious port city and is now working on a bilingual publication of his Genoese poems for Il Canneto Publishers ( Genoa).

http://www.julianstannard.com/about/

The Interview

1. What inspired you  to write poetry?

As a young kid I was sent to a boarding school near Sheffield. I had been living in Malaysia  up until that moment  so boarding school  felt like an unexpected  and unwanted incarceration; it could be  nightmarish at times, and it was always  extremely cold! Reading –  as is so often the case, I think,   was  a way of coping generally  and English  was more or less the only thing I was  reasonably good at . At ‘A level’  we studied  the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins  who, it turned out, had actually taught at the school in the  19th century,  and  we also studied The Waste Land  which seemed to resonate across the years. Something in my head said   ‘Holy shit, I think I like this!’

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Our A level English Lit teacher was an irascible drunken left-wing Scotsman who was nevertheless on occasion  quite brilliant. He didn’t discourage drinking; in fact, he probably saw it as part of our wider education (an extra-curriculum activity), so we would trek across the damp hills looking for accommodating Public Houses.  In the 1970s no one seemed to bother that much about the legal dimension.  A barmaid would say ‘I suppose you’re going to say you’re eighteen?’ and we would say ‘Yes’ in the deepest voices  we could muster.  The beer flowed and in  our state of  inebriation  we would sometimes   talk about  poetry, and  even begin  to write it, in  our heads at least.  At the ages of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, drinking and writing poetry  and  smoking hash were somehow inter-related and it felt better than most of the other things you were expected to do. The English teacher had a record of Eliot reading The Waste Land which, as it most  likely seemed the easiest option, he   would  play quite often, invariably nodding off before  we got to What the Thunder Said. We knew much of it off by heart. At University, in 1983,  I met Fleur Adcock , who came to give a reading and I realised in an instant that  poetry could be conversational,  colloquial and utterly contemporary. For me this was a real breakthrough!

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

In those days it  was still mostly all about older poets, but less so after meeting Fleur.  At University I read  a lot of medieval poets, including Chaucer, who were in turn  indebted to classical poets.   Later when I moved to Italy in the 1980s I learnt that every school child  could cite something  from Dante’s Divine Comedy. And I learnt that Liguria and Genoa, the city  which for a decade or so  became my home , had a rich literary history.   Which included the presence of Byron, Shelley, Dickens, Lawrence, Charles Tomlinson,  Hemingway, WB Yeats, Ezra Pound, Max Beerbohm, Basil Bunting , Camillo Sbarbaro, Eugenio Montale, Giorgio Caproni, Dino Campana. This year, much to my delight,  the Italian publishers Canneto has published my book Sottoripa (2018), which is  a bilingual  publication of my poems about Genoa, translated by Massimo Bacigalupo. http://www.cannetoeditore.it/libri/arte-e-grafica/sottoripa-poesie-genovesi-di-julian-stannard/ In 2013 the title poem had been  made into a short film by Guglielmo Trupia  which was nominated  at the Rain Dance Film Festival https://vimeo.com/82730928 But it was also in that period –  the 1980s – I got hold of a copy of Michael Hofmann’s Acrimony  –  an outstanding  collection by such a youthful poet  – Again  it  was a case of reading old and new voices  – and then finding  one’s own voice.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I begin new poems with a mixture of hope and fear and excitement.  Because  I spend a lot of time teaching in  a university which also means  marking, and all that other bureaucratic stuff and then, when possible,  enjoying some recovery time,  I don’t always have a consistent writing routine but I take the opportunities when they arise  – on the train maybe, or weekends or during holiday  time. I spend a lot of time working on drafts or reading new poetry. I like listening to music, especially Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis,  Charlie Parker et al. This helps me write or re-write or just relax. When  my younger son was living  with me I would  listen to  a lot of  Rap – whether I wanted to or not – and when it comes to   the Notorious B.I.G , I have acquired a coating of  expertise! And  sometimes I send poems to friends to see what they think.

5. What motivates you to write?

A response of a kind.  The general weirdness of stuff I think – overheard conversations, things I‘ve read, billboards, train announcements (endless!), anger, desolation, joy, memories. I think we’re living in particularly challenging times; the political climate is worrying, more food banks, more homelessness, more poverty, fear of losing one’s job. The wider international situation too.  I have always been a loyal supporter of the Labour Party so that in itself brings  highs  and lows, rather like watching  your football team play brilliantly for much of the game yet somehow  throw it away  right at the end. Brexit fills me with immense sadness. 6. What is your work ethic? Teaching  often  consumes swathes of my life, it’s  draining , but because I also teach creative writing  I can, from time to time, get inspired by student  work which is wonderful too. It’s a delight to come across real talent and help nurture it.  I like to read  a lot of contemporary poetry and new fiction  generally. I am asked to review quite frequently which is a discipline in itself, a kind of homework, and a way of keeping up to date. Travelling often produces new poetry. Notwithstanding work pressures I manage to write a fair amount; and if a poem demands  to be written I  usually find the time to answer those demands! It’s a lot more enjoyable than writing some anodyne document or funding bid. 7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today? Their influence never really goes away, even if you spend a lot of time with newer or different  voices. I think  those ‘early’ poets helped fashion a way of thinking  about poetry  – and it’s  always a great pleasure to return to their  writing, whether it be those earlier generation such as the modernists  –  Eliot ,Pound, William Carlos Williams, DH Lawrence  – or  poets such as Frank O’Hara or Robert Creeley,  and/ or Lowell, Berryman  and co. Not to mention those older contemporary poets, especially if they are still producing new work: poets such as Fleur Adcock, Christopher  Reid, Hugo Williams, Maurice Riordan , Selima Hill, Michael Hofmann-  to name a few.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There are so many! There’ s a kind of resurgence in the world of  poetry I feel. I could roll out  a list off the top of my head but I am surely  leaving people  out; but the list would surely include Caroline Bird, George Szirtes, Kathryn Maris, Andrew Macmillan, Declan Ryan, Emily Berry, Tim Cumming,  André Naffis-Sahely,  Claudia Rankine, Sharon  Olds, Annie Freud, Ishion Hutchinson, Luke Kennard, Richard Skinner,  and some pieces  from  Bobby Parker  and Ocean Vuong too. I would also want  to acknowledge the dark genius  of Frederick Seidel, the intimations of mortality still coming from the pen of Clive James. And I take my hat off to my former student and colleague Antosh Wojcik who’s making   quite a name for himself as a performance poet. And why? Variously and varyingly  there is so much  energy  here, a lot of drive, and risk- taking,  and moments of candour (Lowell said ‘ why not say what happened’?)  and plenty of ludic mischief  too and experiment  with form;  in effect some lively conversations between poetry and prose, including  prose poetry, and other media too, including social media.  Some of the poets above work across genres: variously novelists, translators, essayists,  reviewers,  editors, teachers, events’ organisers  and  publishers . Difficult not to mention Charles Boyle, ex-poet, and now writer of prose under various names and the founder of CB Editions. The blogging of Katy Evans-Bush  –  fine poet – has been  significant and the gregarious Bethany Pope, poet and novelist, is now writing more or less daily reports from China.   I look forward to reading her next book.

9. Why do you write?

After forty years or so of doing it  –  oh  my God ! – it’s become a habit, a way of thinking and even a way of  living. Sometimes reportage, sometimes invention, I guess it’s a way of dealing  with some deep, not always unpleasant,  itch  – which in turn probably answers to  all  sorts of Freudian-like  neuroses… Writing, at times, is totally satisfying and, in a practical sense, quite easy to do. I don’t need a studio or a theatre or complicated props.  Just the page itself, I guess, which  is a kind of stage. 10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?” I’d say Read, read and read yet more  and try thing out. Experiment, take risks, be thick-skinned,  and try and get  plenty of sleep!

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

My last  English collection came out in 2016 –  What were  you thinking? (CB Editions http://www.cbeditions.com/stannard.html) ; so  I’m grappling  with the creation of a new MS – several pieces of which  have been published in  magazines. Any new collection  has , at least for me , a rather  aleatory dynamic –  feeling  my way forwards, as it  were, letting  poems butt their way in, or conversely slide away … I’m also writing a book called Transatlantic Conversations – which is about the relationships, harmonious or otherwise,  between British and American  poetry; this is for the publisher Peter Lang. As well as the above ,I’m  also working with  the novelist and artist Roma Tearne on a collaborative  project  called  Heat Wave  – It’s s a sort of dialogue between  poems of mine and Roma’s  fantastic  paintings . Not an ekphrastic venture I hasten to add. More a dark night of the soul with some gleeful moments too! A kind of synaesthetic fugue…. It’s coming out next year thanks to Green Bottle Press. We’re planning  several readings /events so watch this space!

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews:  Julian Stannard  Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.