crocusesWell, the halls of Baroque have been more or less closed for the winter, and there has been black crepe hung along them for Thomas Vink-Lainas, my  beloved uncle, who died one month and one day ago. He was an artist – a painter, a graphic designer, a maker – a furniture restorer, a framer, a builder of dry stone walls and staircases and anything else that needed building – and an intellectual, who loved Nabokov and Wendell Berry and Guy Davenport. It  had been a long time since I had been able to have a conversation with him about any of this kind of stuff, but his conversation is always in my head no matter what I’m reading or looking at or listening to, and his pictures hang on the walls here.

All eyes, in the meantime – all Baroque family eyes – have been focused on the Catskills, where our two cousins – the two babies of the cousin family – have heroically worked to sort out an avalanche of disasters that originated with that one: one thing tumbling down as the thing above it goes, right down to keeping the driveway ploughed so one of them can get up to the now-freezing house, which  now has frozen pipes, to feed the two freezing cats. They still have so much snow that it’s almost hard to remember that right here it is beginning to feel like spring. There are snowdrops and even a few crocuses in the park and the air – even when cold – is beginning to feel softer.

New life. I’m not sure this kind of new life really feels softer, though. It’s to break through. Yesterday my musician cousin took his dad’s drum kit from the house, to put it up in his new band’s studio. That was a wrench, but it’s new life and my cousin acknowledges it.

I went, without reflecting that it was a month on, and had my hair done, properly done and everything for the first time in years. Well – I had a cut the other week but that was only Stage One of this thing. The reason I mention it here is that what has been done is a big step. Basically, working in around the grey. The solid colour is gone, the roots are gone, the bleach has been applied to start working with what’s actually happening instead of what used to be happening, or what one wishes might be happening. So I now have a rather amazing streak of white at the front – that’s natural – and streaks of brown and blonde and grey all over, and it all looks both dramatic and oddly a bit younger. I don’t think there is ANYTHING as ageing as bad supermarket colour with roots growing out; that’s a truism and a true one. And if you think about it, this is Baroque in Hackney, not trying-to-be-normal in Hackney, and I have always loved that 18th century grey hair fashion. They did it with powder, they did it with wigs. It’s a very beautiful look and it is now, in a way, going to be my look. Here is a slightly lame selfie taken this minute:

better baroque

It makes sense to do it now. For one thing, there’s nothing like a personal crisis to bring out the hairdresser’s appointment card. And the world feels upside down right now – nothing is quite real – what better time to do something that also feels unreal, but is in fact a turning towards what is real.

My aunt, the one who is widowed by this bereavement, has been revealed to have more of a dementia than any of us quite realised, and was being both cared for and slightly shielded by my uncle. She has always coloured her hair a signature red, all her life, and is now grey. I think part of me just went, well if Aunt Mary can be grey, so can I. Let’s all just do it. Let’s be different from how we were.

And that’s aside from all the feminist aspect – the Patti Smith and Mary Beard thing, and the fact that when I did an informal count in the tube the other week, in rush hour, there were plenty of men with grey hair, and only one woman – and she had highlights in it of the kind that are trying to disguise the grey. Something clearly needs to be done. DOING it is after all the only Baroque thing to do, the highlights and the lowlights and the artifice that brings you to what is most real after all – the life in death and the death in life, and the snowdrops pushing up under your feet even while your heart is turned towards the snow.

So 2015 maybe starts here. It’s like The Magic Flute, there’s been trial of one sort and trial of another. It ends with wisdom and with a thaw.

I’ve just finished judging the Members’ Poems for the next issue of Poetry News; the theme I set was ‘the tiny world’, and the poems, many of them, were stupendous. I was only allowed to choose six, and I can’t say here what they were, but at least one of them was resonant to this moment.  The world got tinier a month or two after I set the subject, and now it seems to be stretching out again, in a paler way – maybe full of possibilities.

In 2015 I’m going to be putting together my manuscript for my as-yet-untitled collection of essays. Due out in December with Penned in the Margins. This will involve both editing and collating things I already have and writing new things  to flesh it out and provide – maybe – direction.

A couple of the new essays may be published in magazines before then.

This year I hope to write some good new poems, so that there will be a manuscript I can start sending around. There are poems forthcoming in the spring issue of Poetry Wales; in an anthology of poems relating to the news that Jude Cowan Montague is editing; and in the excellent Fulcrum, published in Boston by Katia Kapovich and Philip Nicolayev. I’m reading for Poetry in the Crypt in Islington on 30 May, which will be- I think – the first reading I’ve done in about a year. Details to follow in due course.

There’s also going to be more, and somehow or other it’s going to be about typewriters.

And now, off into a late afternoon that is still light, and whose clouds are just turning pink around the edges.

 

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Twin Splendids

Just a quick update to let the world know that Ms Baroque is still here, just. There is a lot of work on,  and there has been a recent death in the family which has knocked everybody for six. The past four weeks have been mostly a very painful confluence of those two factors. Normal service will be resumed as soon as I can manage it; indeed, is already underway. If you are one of the many people I owe an email to, be assured I’m working my way through the inbox. If I owe you actual work, please be assured that I’m doing it!

In the meantime, there is nothing as calming, it turns out, as a clacky little machine that is operated by your fingers. Even if you only clack it in passing.

Busy, back soon!

January 22, 2015

Normal service will be resumed shortly, I hope! Meanwhile I am making like this doll and have been pretty much constantly typing on various things since before Christmas. Some of them are documents. And some of them are typewriters. It’s hard to believe that January is nearly over already, but  am hoping to be able […]

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We are all Charlie Hebdo

January 7, 2015

I was going to write about Pascale Petit’s poetry collection, Fauverie, today. It is a fine book. Its poems are spare and precise, and its images are startling and bright. But then the news came from Paris, and all thoughts of poetry, or anything else besides grief and rage, went out of my head. Pascale is […]

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Delayed Reaction: the Free Verse Book Fair, back in September

December 31, 2014

What follows is a post I began and never finished, back in the day when it would have been relevant. This has been very much the story or 2014, and for this reason I am publishing this post as it is. Or was. The year DID happen, even though my blogging of it was fairly […]

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Merry, Faithful and Virtuous: some reading at Christmas

December 30, 2014

Right! We have weathered Christmas here in Baroque Mansions, the last child has departed, and the panettone is getting smaller. The Christmas tree is still twinkling behind me, and so is the balcony. It’s a cold sunny day and I am back at my desk. Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly given the amount of cooking and […]

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Merry Christmas, everybody

December 25, 2014

The Reprieve The Christmas tree, so I’ve heard told, grows most lush where it’s most cold. The Star of Christmas, some remark, shines brightest where the night’s most dark. Christmas comes, like all tomorrows, to him who laughs and her who sorrows, we carol out our Christmas songs while sleigh-bells toll like tiny gongs. But […]

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Eyes on the Prize: 3rd annual TS Eliot shortlist workshop

December 4, 2014

Ten books. Ten poets. The most prestigious poetry prize in the UK.* The day before the big prize reading. Yes, it’s time for my third annual all-day workshop on the TS Eliot Prize shortlist ! All ten, count ‘em , ten of ‘em. We’ll be at the Poetry School in Lambeth Walk. This workshop takes […]

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