(My apologies to Billy Bragg)
We ended on fish and chips last week, and I’ve just had fish and chips for lunch. Spooky…What will happen if I finish this post on the word sausages….? Sort of reminds me of an old joke about David Beckham and sandwiches…I can’t remember the build up (and can’t be arsed to type it out now anyway), but the punchline is “But he made his own sandwiches.”. I’m not saying I’m like David Beckham—we’ve already established I am the “Aldi Stanley Tucci”, but more that the whole sausage thing could be in my own hands…How did I get to this? Let’s move on.
I’ve mentioned Worstead Festival before, so I won’t give it much of a set up, but for the late arrivals Worstead is the Norfolk village where I grew up. Worstead Festival has been running for 60 years now…obviously I’ve not been to them all, but I try not to miss them. However, last weekend was my first one since before the Covids arrived. I was meant to go last year, but got nobbled by the aforementioned Covids, so I was positively chomping at the bit to get there. Not least because this year I got to return a weaving loom to the local weavers guild.
My mum was a member of the local guild back in the 80s and used to take part in the weaving displays during the festival. When mum moved out of Worstead she took her loom and put it in the loft of her new home. It stayed there until she threatened to throw it out. I didn’t want it to go, and assumed Flo might want to use it, but she didn’t, so its been sitting in my loft for about 8 years. I finally managed to find someone that would take it, and I was very pleased it was sort of coming home. And it’s now out of my loft and into their arms (And now I have a Billy Ocean ear worm…And now so do you.)
The rest of the weekend was suitably excellent, as ever. I got to catch up with a lot of old friends—including someone I’ve not since in about 30 years (eek, always hurts saying things like that), hung out with my excellent child, had the joys of camping in a friend’s garden, saw my old mates—Rachael and Des, did some Archery, attended my first ever Silent Disco, ran the annual five-mile race (only 1 min slower than last time and I’m 4 years older than last time), recreated my old author photo, and sampled some excellent pints.
What I wasn’t quite prepared for was the return of my Norfolk accent. I had been pondering on accents and the like following an email exchange with another poet. I don’t really have a Norfolk accent, but it can come out every now and then, however, last weekend it was ever-present. Some of it was a bit of gentle Mickey taking, but most of it wasn’t. Most of it was just a natural mirroring of what was going on around me.
I may have also been thinking about accents more than usual having read the poem below a few weeks ago.
Right, let’s have a poem
Darlin’
When I heard it said
in affection,
the roll of its ”r’
in an accent
that ages a man
by a decade,
I heard the river
of this town in his throat.
I caught the harvests,
lanes and banks of this track
as they came tumbling out.
I fell alongside,
eyes always on the dogs,
soon learned
that his 67 years
were lived here. Feats made
in a radius of four roads.
An excellent life, darlin’.
I thought of my split
from this county,
the stench of pastoral
swallowed
in a city’s current.
How I stayed away so long.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Published with the permission of the author. Taken from Latch by Rebecca Goss, Carcanet Press, 2023.
Click on the book title to purchase.
I’ve been a fan of Rebecca’s work since first coming across it in her incredible second collection, Her Birth, then working backwards to get hold of her first collection, The Anatomy of Structures, then getting up to date with Girl and now Latch. I’ve not got her first pamphlet, Keeping Houston Time, or a copy of her photo/Poem project, Carousel yet. I must remedy both of those things, but both will be tricky as they have both sold out…Damn it.
I read this particular poem a few weeks ago while on holiday. I inhaled Latch in one sitting and then had to go back to it afterwards to take it in a bit more slowly.
You can tell how much her work has moved on and broadened since Girl, and Rebecca has said as much in interviews. She’s also mentioned how hard this collection was to write, how it had changed course from the original intention. I’d recommend watching the launch video below to hear all about that, and an excellent interview between Rebecca and Caroline Bird. Oh yes, and some excellent poems too.
I’ve previously pointed you to her two interviews with John Greening before, but have a listen here and here for more details and a lovely chat about poetic origins and a changing career, and much more.
There are so many poems I’d want to choose from Latch (and the other books), but I knew the moment I clapped eyes on this one that it would resonate. I think it also connects back to the poem I shared recently by Ruth Beddow in that feeling of “stench of pastoral /swallowed / in a city’s current”. It’s a powerful feeling that is one I recognise now I’m a kerb-stepper.
When I read the poem, and even though I think the accent Rebecca discusses is a Suffolk one (and I’m not one for the rivalries between the Suffs and the Nors…we all know Norfolk is just better), I could absolutely hear my old friend Toby Swann saying “Darlin’ ” in my head.
(NB I think Toby is a little older than 67, but not much. I could smell his pipe smoke and see him sitting the village square). Weirdly, this is the first year I’ve not seen Toby at the end of the festival. I usually bump into him on a Monday morning as I’m loading my tent back into my car…but I digress.
There is much to admire in this poem, the repetitive a sounds of the first six lines give it an East Anglian feel to my ears, the phrase “the river / of this town in his throat” is a sound I recognise in the way some folks almost gargle as they speak. It’s also obvious (to me at least) that the last line was always going to be a knockout punch for someone that misses the countryside, although an alternative reading of that last line is potentially much darker..What kept her away for so long, especially when taken in conjunction with the use of the word “stench” earlier in the last stanza?
However, the winner for me is to be found in the second stanza…where she describes the old boy (or bor, if we’re going colloquial, and why wouldn’t we?) as having lived in a “radius of four roads”, and having performed “Feats”. I think this phrase contains multitudes…Has he had a quiet but full life? He has achieved “Feats” in that small space. What are those “Feats”? I want to know more, but I know they don’t need to be things that are shouted about.
It makes me think of all the people out there that get on with life and often go entirely unnoticed but have had full lives. It makes me think of many people I know that have barely left the borders of their town or village, hamlet or county. It seems odd in this interconnected world of ours, but it also sounds incredibly appealing at present as the sounds of this London suburb are doing what they do behind my head as I type.
And man, the silence when I was back in Worstead was glorious. There was a moment when I was sitting with my friend in another friend’s garden. It was utterly silent apart from the occasional garbled noise coming from the festival announcers (and there were some wonderful Norfolk accents on display there too).
That mention of silence is probably my cue to stop gibbering, but please do go and buy Rebecca’s work, watch the videos and listen to the podcasts.
However, before I go I note that I saw this article earlier in the week and then heard that my poem about the Arecibo telescope is due to be published next week by New Welsh Review. Coincidence? I don’t think so….
A Song that is in some vague way linked to something above
THE LAST THREE WEEKS IN STATS
HEALTH STATS
15K running. inc the five miler and an aborted midweek
1 day without cigarettes…(fell off the wagon yesterday after 5 days)
1 days since drinking.
LIFE STATS
1 set of pints with an old mate
1 drive to Norfolk
2 days working from my mum’s house
2 days Worstead festival
1 five mile race
A billion pints
4 very late nights
2 daft checks of work emails while I was off
1 drive back from Norfolk
1 teenager (not mine) deposited on a train to Banbury
1 submission that I had to withdraw due to not knowing the date
1 teenager deposited on a train to Penrith
1 trip to Whitstable
3 Ikea wardrobes assembled
1 dance round my friend’s kitchen
3 weeks worth of ironing
POET STATS
1 loose ideas/articles gathered (this allows me to kid myself I am writing all the time)
0 poem finished:
2 poems worked on: Take Hart, Time To Cut A Stick
0 poems committed to the reject pile
2 submissions: Scintilla, Butcher’s Dog
0 withdrawal:
0 acceptances:
0 Longlisting:
0 readings:
0 rejection:
18 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
94 Published poems
Reviews
0 review finished:
0 reviews started:
0 review submitted:
1 review to write: Luke Samuel Yates
READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC
Music
r= Radio, A = Audiobook, P=Podcast. The rest is music
Monday
Mort Garson: Journey To The Moon & Beyond
Guided By Voices: Do the Collapse
VA- Goldwax Northern Soul
The National: Cherry Tree Vol 3, Alligator, Boxer
The Archers
Lantern podcast: John Glenday and Liz Houchin
Tuesday
AO Gerber: Meet Me At The Gloaming
Agnes Obel: Myopia, Myopia Instrumentals
Amusement Parks On Fire: Out of the Angeles
Helpful People: Broken Blossom Threats
Hop Along: Painted Shut
Kieran Hebden & Steve Reid: the Exchange Sessions Vol 1
Lady Lamb: Even in The Tremor, In The Mammoth Nothing of the Night
Dropsonde Playlist
Wednesday
Lady Lamb: In The Mammoth Nothing of the Night
The Hold Steady: Price of Progress
Thursday
Sinead O’Connor: Universal Mother, Lion & the Cobra, I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got
Dropsonde
Fri- Sun
Bands in a field
Silent Disco
Mon
Dropsonde
Tuesday
Pernice Brothers: The World Won’t End
My Morning Jacket: The Waterfall 2
Apples In Stereo: Science Faire
The Clientele: I Am Not there Anymore
Apex Twin: Blackbox Life Recorder 21f / In a Room7 F760 – EP
Velvet Crush: Teenage Symphonies To God
Cat Power: What Would the Community Think?
Blur: The Ballad of Darren
Weds
The Archers
Lantern Poetry: Don Paterson and Roshini Gallagher
Arji’s Poetry Pickle Jar: Emma Jeremy, Joe Carrick-Varty
Billie Marten; Feeding Seahorses By Hand
Renée Reed: ST
Faye Webster: ST
Julien Baker: Little Oblivions
Babes In Toyland: Fontanelle
Thursday
The Clientele: It’s Art Dad
Sinead O’Connor: Throw Down Your Arms
Steve Mason: Brothers & Sisters
Dexys: Too-Ry-Aye, Don’t Stand me Down, The Feminine Divine
Luke Howard: The Sand That Ate The Sea
Jim Bob: Thanks For Reaching Out
Squid; O Monolith
Friday
Dexys: Searching For The Young Soul Rebels
Dean & Britta: L’Avventura
The Danny Thompson Trio: Live In London 1976
Can: Soon Over Babaluma
Raul Lovisoni & Francisco Messina: Prati Bagnati Del Monte Analogio
Tim Maia: ST
Helen Ganya: Polish the Machine
Girl Ray: Prestige
Virginia Ashley: From Gardens…
Siouxsie & the Banshees: Hyaena, Join Hands
Saturday
Seawind of Battery: Clockwatching
Cate Le Bon: Pompei
Annie Hart: The Weight of a Wave
Liraz: Roya
The Hold Steady: Teeth Dreams
Jessie Buckley And Bernard Butler: For All Our Days That Tear the Heart
Gwenno: Tressor
Sharon Van Etten: We’ve Been Going About This All Wrong
Sunday
The Archers
Read
Robert Tombs: The English and their History (I’ve finally finished the fucker!!)
Watched
Invasion
Wolf
Ordered/Bought
Tickets
Arrived
Wear The Fox Hat 
Strange things accents. I find I can fall into and out of them very easily, so I guess that’s a common experience. My mum would revert to her original Dagenham when her sister came to stay and often came out with words and sayings in the Norfolk accents of her mum and granny (Agnes Riches!) Also: better to be the Aldi Stanley Tucci than the Happy Shopper one.
They are indeed. I dip in and out of Northern (Yorkshire wife), Cockernee, and all sorts in between. I must fire up the Ancestry family tree again to check in on Agnes…And yes, Aldi over Happy Shopper always, but I can imagine Stanley in HS colours now…he’d look like he was dyed in Aperol. And given some of the shows I’ve seen with him in that may not be far from the truth