The Bible, Shakespeare and Proust

22nd October

In one of the most magnificent venues the Manchester Literature Festival has seen this year – the Baronial Hall at Chetham’s School of Music – two of Manchester’s most prominent poetic figures are sitting, having a glass of wine and chatting about poetry; from the reasons behind writing and translating to what their luxury item would be on a desert island.

John McAuliffe – poet, co-director of the University of Manchester’s Centre for New Writing and editor of The Manchester Review – is chairing the evening and conducting a relaxed interview with Michael Schmidt – OBE, FRSL, poet, professor, founder of Carcanet Press and P N Review (the list goes on).

With these titles and accolades thrown around, it is suffice to say that the chosen luxury item on the desert island, after the Bible and the complete works of Shakespeare, is Proust – ‘that way you at least have some sort of library’, says Schmidt. And so, after the formal introductions the intent and appreciative audience is treated to Schmidt reading a few of his favourite translations of his own.

Between the handouts of poems passed through the audience and the stories he relates to each one, it is clear to see how Schmidt has risen from his beginnings in Mexico reading lyrical poetry to becoming one of the most notable names in literature today. Over only a couple of sides of A4, Schmidt has covered Mexican-Spanish, Greek, German, Russian, Anglo-Saxon and Irish – though nothing is cluttered or rushed.

The talk is centred around Schmidt’s translations, though as McAuliffe probes a little more to find out just how Schmidt manages all he does, it is revealed that translation is something to do when one’s own poetry isn’t flowing. That is not to undermine translation – it is as important as everything else in poetry – but for a man with as much on his plate as Schmidt, one must wonder where he finds the time.

Schmidt’s next volume to appear is entitled ‘The Lives of the Novelists’ which, he reveals, is already over 1000 pages and is only just beginning the 20th Century. Schmidt’s obvious passion for poetry and literature is unceasing, and if one were stuck on a desert island with him, it would be a good while before he ran out of things to talk about.

by Charlie Cocksedge

Charlie Cocksedge is about to complete an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Manchester, and is currently wondering what to do next. He is open to any offers! charliecocksedge@live.com

Dispelling “the Myth”: Lyndall Gordon on Emily Dickinson

22nd October

As the Friday commuters pound the pavement on their way to eateries and drinkeries to brush away the cobwebs of the working week, the oak-panelled Becker Room of the Manchester City Library is filling to the brim with eager spectators.

We are all here to see prize-winning serial biographer, Lyndall Gordon, to talk about her latest work, an exposé on the real life of reclusive 19th century American poet, Emily Dickinson. Senior Research Fellow at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford, Gordon has previously penned biographies of writers as diverse as T.S. Eliot (for which she won the British Academy’s Rose May Crawshay Prize) and Virginia Woolf, which won, in turn, the James Tait Black Memorial Prize.

Today’s talk concerning her latest literary subject very much has the air of “setting the record straight”, dispelling the well-propagated myth that Dickinson was a flitting, fragile, ghostly figure and unearthing, perhaps, evidence to explain what the poet, herself, referred to as her “sickness.” And myth-busting becomes a particularly pertinent thread as we learn that “the Myth” was the nomenclator-of-choice that the New England townsfolk coined for this poet in their midst.

In her passionate and empathetic investigation, Gordon ploughs fertile soil, unearthing tales of bitter rivalry, inter-family feuds, adultery and deceit, showering upon this hungry crowd details of the poet’s philandering brother, Austin, and his mistress, a Lady Macbeth figure whose machinations and ambition led to both the posthumous publication of Dickinson’s vast oeuvre of 1,780 (untitled) poems, and also to the over-sentimentalised fables (some might almost say lies) that surround her. And because of this, the surviving image of Dickinson is that she locked herself away from the prying eyes of society because of a broken heart; that she was a Miss Havisham figure, happiest only when shut away with her unhappiness.

However, through Gordon’s highly engaging, often humorous insights, an altogether different persona is revealed. For one thing, Dickinson seems to have had a sharp, acerbic comic streak, as illustrated when, having declined an invitation to a party, she explained that, “I am so old fashioned all your friends would stare.”

She also seemed to have a steely determination and powerful moral compass at her core, refusing her brother’s mistress a plot of land gleaned from the family estate. In fact, this controversy also highlights a fundamental love and passion that the poet held for her family, writing to her beloved nephew, Ned, that she would exhibit “no treason”- that she would never allow the young boy’s father to give away part of his inheritance to this woman she openly referred to as “Egypt”, an open and brave comparison she makes to Cleopatra’s sexual manipulation of the doomed Roman general, Anthony. These are all incidents which Gordon avails us with to suggest that Dickinson was no wallflower.

The most fascinating aspect of the talk, however, doesn’t reside within the annals of historical fact, but within Gordon’s educated suppositions with regards to the real cause of the poet’s “sickness”, something she later comes to see as her “ethereal Gain”. Gordon’s theory is that Dickinson could have been suffering from epilepsy (lending even more meaning to her famous poetic phrase, “I felt a funeral in my brain”), a position that is elucidated by the genealogical evidence of the illness being present in other members of the family. Dickinson also speaks of her empathy with Othello’s “affliction”, himself an epileptic. She then draws fascinating parallels with the Russian writer Dostoevsky who talks about the higher plains of consciousness and perception that he was able to tap into prior to a seizure; and of course, these “doors of perception”, to quote William Blake, are precisely the apertures that Dickinson leads us through when we read her existential poetry.

Ultimately, it is her poetry that is left with us today; Gordon reciting, beautifully, from memory, the powerful language and rhythms that Dickinson was experimenting with, her unique punctuation style of only using the hyphen reflective of the syncopation in jazz music.

The event closes with a wonderfully relaxed Q and A and informal discussion about the theories that she raised which emphasises just how Gordon has got to the top of her field – her thirst for knowledge and her overall openness and eagerness for the ideas and theories of all us here. And as we all troop out into the rain and the “certain slant of light” (to quote Dickinson) that washes the city streets, we are all united by a very real need to rediscover this ground-breaking poet, a woman who had many more sides to her than the myth would lead us to believe.

by Matt Colbeck

Matt is currently studying for his PhD in English Literature at the University of Sheffield. He can be frequently seen performing in his band CreepJoint around the Midlands:

Caryl Phillips

22nd October

This is one of the great opportunities that MLF offers with it, introducing a writer as widely acclaimed as Caryl Phillips. He is a Professor of English at Yale University and the author of twelve works of fiction and non-fiction. Caryl Phillips has too many accolades to mention, and it is clear by his reading and presence at MMU why he is a writer of such credibility.

The John Dalton Lecture Theatre lecture theatre at almost full capacity immediately highlights that Phillips is a writer I really should have read by now, and after hearing him speak of his own journey with the pen he definitely will be on my next-to-read pile.

The undergraduate’s of MMU have recently studied Phillip’s novel Cambridge (1991), and this was a suitably fitting place to promote his new venture In the Falling Snow. The delicate cover of his new novel made the autumn chill feel beautifully crisp with the wrapped up students in the room. Although this is Phillips most recent release, he used the time and space to answer a deeper question that he intuitively knew we wanted the answer to:

How did he become a writer?

Phillips tells us of his life in 10 small chapters, which I will attempt to bulldoze for you. They can be read in full here.

The journey starts from his life as a five year old boy who becomes aware of the white line across the playground, separating him as the only black boy in the school from the other children. At seven years old he moves to another school without any girls, he’s made to show a story he’s written to his teacher and isn’t sure if he is being punished or not, “well done, I’ll hold onto this,” the teacher says.

Eight years old with his head in books, he borrows the maximum amount from the library, by Monday he has read them all. He borrows The Famous Five from the boys down the street, but he wonders why the boy’s mother puts them in the oven when he gives them back, he overhears germs. The way Phillips pauses on the word, manages to conjure the absolute sickening feeling he must have felt as an eight year old boy. Consequently, his mother stops him borrowing books off the neighbours.

At nine with recently divorced parents, he begins to realise the difference between his father’s schooling and his own, as a poetic void is drawn.

Jumping to the age of sixteen, with no girlfriend and few friends he locks himself away with 19th Century literature, he loses himself in others. He begins university to study Psychology, however his professor tells him “if you want to know people, study English literature.”

At twenty years old, Phillips goes to America and reads a copy of a book with a man that looks a little like himself, it is there that he realises he could write too. The book is Richard Wright’s Native Son. Phillips reads the book in a single sitting on a deck chair by the sea, it is here that he sees ambition being replaced with purpose.

In chapter ten, he speaks of the difference between him and his great-grandmother through the books he has sent her that have been opened from their brown paper packaging only to be re-wrapped, disclosing the generational gap and how life reveals its history.

Caryl Phillips reads aloud with such a calm pace and poetic manner in the same way his written word is structured on the page. After his reading of Growing Pains the event naturally moves into question and answer, where Phillips discusses his influences and thoughts.

He speaks of his love for the writers Brian Friel and William Faulkner:

Brian Friel’s play Translations is hailed by Phillips as one of the greatest plays about colonialism, with all the subtleties being resonated through the language barriers.

Falkner is in Phillips rendition an “architect of narrative.” He speaks of a new narrative structure being necessary to answer the question what do we do with our plural selves as we find ourselves in the postmodern world?

Phillips tells us he didn’t realise the possibility of becoming an author because he didn’t recognise himself in the authors that he was reading. It is for that reason that Native Son was a revelation for him because he could emphasise with the gritty deprived urban area, even though the novel was set in Chicago the social fabric reminded him of his own upbringing in Leeds.

Phillips own university studies were filled with conservative literature, so the controversial question arose, how does he feel about being studied on a university syllabus? – the answer: he’s not bothered by it either way. Poignantly Phillips states, “My business is to construct the narrative and yours to deconstruct.”

He jokes that he’s not going to start deconstructing himself, laughing “for that is the route of madness.”

Phillips defies the labelling system, though he can see a use for it - he personally has no need to define himself in this way. He says he can’t police where he is placed in the literature section, and he isn’t crazy enough to start re-arranging the shelves.

“I’ve only ever described myself as writer, it’s up to other people.”

“A writer and old school” are the two ways we hear Phillips define himself. When asked how he creates his narrative voice, the answer is organic. Phillips uses primary research methods, journals, letters and diaries, which are becoming increasingly obsolete. He still writes in long hand “I like to feel . . . a tactile relationship with the material.”

The conversation moves to the crazy world of novel translation, as Phillips jokes and tells us of the ridiculous German translation of his first novel The Final Passage, that was translated to the title Leaving a Tropical Island with a palm tree on the front cover.

Over to music and Phillips speaks about his love for the shared experience brought by gigs. He beautifully muses how he was best friends on Thursday for fifteen minutes with a cabbie from Leicester, through their shared love of music.

Phillips is asked about being at Eric Clapton’s gig in 1976, where Clapton told the crowd to keep England white. I was shocked at the nod of recognition by Phillips as he spoke heartbreakingly of how the worst thing about being the only black kid at that gig was that he had an awkward bus ride home with his best friend who never spoke to him after that.

Phillips manner is so calm that it cuts through any radical activism, he says himself he does not claim to be an activist, but through his presence and his writing it is clear that he makes things happen.

Over to the hot topic of the moment should the state support the arts? Phillips pragmatically says there is a responsibility for the state to support its artists and we pay our taxes. He recognises if he hadn’t been granted an arts award that he still would have continued to write, but stresses that we all have a duty to support the arts.

The big one the one that’s always asked and we always want the secret to, what tips do you have for writers? – In the words of Caryl Phillips “READ” that is his only tip and the only necessity.

We end fittingly on how Phillips comes to end his own novels: does he have destination in mind? He says he does but he doesn’t always get there. Phillips speaks of his love for ambiguity and his feeling that we do not get enough, “I think ambiguity is better.”

I leave the lecture theatre with plenty to think about and a book that I am definitely going to get out of the library, especially because we didn’t really discuss it. So as Phillips says, ambiguity or that which is left unsaid can be so much more powerful.

by Rebecca Guest

Rebecca Guest is a freelance writer and workshop host, she welcomes any collaborative projects. You can find her on twitter @babamonchichi

Mills & Boon and giant killer crabs

21st October

Ever read a book and thought it was terrible? Well maybe you should send a copy to Robin Ince, the stand-up comedian who has created a unique comedy show centred upon bad books.

At the Queen of Hearts in the bustling student suburb of Fallowfield, Robin Ince staged his hilarious one-man comedy show, The Bad Book Club to a sold out audience. As a sports bar, the Queen of Hearts may seem an incongruous place to stage a night of alternative comedy, however with the flat-screen TVs turned off and the interior lighting set to dim, the old church was magically transformed from a sports bar into a comedy club style venue.

Bounding on stage with his arms gesticulating wildly and speaking what seemed like 600 words per minute, Ince hastily explained the premise of his Bad Book Club which goes something a little like this; Ince scours second-hand bookshops across the country searching for any inadvertently awful books he can find, which he then buys, reads and goes onto discuss with his audience for comic effect.

Ince began his Bad Book Club five years ago and has since amassed quite a collection of bad books. His Manchester appearance included some Mills & Boon, the giant killer-crabs series by Guy N. Smith, and psychology books such as: How To Undo A Maiden, Man’s Book: Temptation in a Private Zone and Sex is Not Compulsory.

Using only a microphone, a homemade CD soundtrack and a pile of books, Ince started his book club with a discussion on Mills & Boon which he said is like, “the Andy Warhol factory of romance.” As Mills & Boon is such a formulaic book series Ince asked a member of the audience to pick a page at random so that he could prove that any page could be read for comic-effect. And it just so happened that page 92 from Stormy Vigil began right in the middle of a not-so-steamy sex scene.

As well as his literary talents for close-reading of texts, Ince also has a talent for impersonations and he complemented the book readings by donning faux voices for the characters and sometimes reading along to music. At times the voices he adopted sounded reminiscent of monologues that accompanied low budget TV shows and films from the eighties, and if anyone is familiar with Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace which was screened on Channel 4 in 2004, they will be able to hear the similarities.

Some of the books he enthused about the most were Guy N. Smith’s giant killer crab series, whose titles include Crabs on the Rampage, Night of the Crabs and the succinctly named Killer Crabs. The plots of these novels sound as daft as any B-movie and their sex scenes are equally as clunky as any found in a Mills & Boon. But what makes these crab crazy books uniquely funny is that they are set in the 1970s and 80s, so there’s an element of political incorrectness involved. Ince cited one instance in Night of the Crabs when two characters both watching a man being killed by giant crabs remarked: “We can’t do anything, he’s deaf.” And no, that’s not a typo.

Another sentence that went awry cropped up in The Book of the Netherland Dwarf, which in reference to Netherland Dwarf rabbits says: “Unlike a dwarf in real life, it is not deformed”.

Truly awful sentences like the two mentioned above made the audience in the Queen of Hearts audibly groan and squirm in their seats, but that’s exactly the kind of reaction Ince buzzed off while onstage. As a loud and opinionated comedian, Robin Ince is not afraid to speak exactly what is on his mind, (even if this does get him into trouble with his wife) and two months ago, he gave up cigarettes and alcohol but this has in no way curbed his enthusiasm or creativity.

Following a short interval he started the second half with a lengthy digression about the perils of modern life and then returned back to his books by reciting a poem entitled ‘Jam’ by Danielle Steele from her Book of Love Poems. From what could be discerned from the abysmal poem, it was literally about eating jam for breakfast, “some sugar maybe / But always jam”. Ince described the poem as, “sentences in a shape” and recited it in a jazz style with accompanying music. It ended flatly on the rhyming couplet of ham/jam which is possibly one of the worst uses of the rhyming couplet in the history of English literature.

Worse was to come though when Ince closed his show with a return to the killer crabs, and this time it was Crabs on the Rampage which contained the lines, “crabs, crabs, crabs. Crabs the size of beach donkeys.” Never before has there been such delicate use of metaphor.

Tantalisingly, Ince ran out of time before he could recite any of Leonard Nimoy’s poetry and it’s a also a real shame that he could only bring one-fifth of his books for the Manchester Bad Book Club - it would be well worth finding out what other hidden gems there are in the remaining four-fifths.

If his Bad Book Club tours up north again, I urge every comedy fan, and especially every Mills & Boon fan, to go and see his show.

Catherine Fearn graduated from Lancaster University in 2007 with a BA Hons English Literature Degree and whilst there became involved with the student newspaper SCAN, gaining two years’ experience as an Arts & Music Reviewer. Since graduating she has been employed as a proofreader for a Manchester-based retailer and is also currently studying a Freelance Arts and Music course with the London School of Journalism.

Catherine's blog is called The Poplar Tree and is one of Manchester’s literature-orientated blogspots which includes editorial features on authors, reviews of books, films and anything in-between, such as TV programmes and current affairs.

Giggle-inducing concoctions

21st October

“If I were a poet,” I decided whilst on the way to the MLF’s Comedy Poetry Slam last night, “today I would be an Angry Poet.”

Fuelled by the flames of a passionate rage, I’d rant and rave about the injustice, trauma and downright betrayal of my evil nemesis... namely, the 111 bus, which had been a no-show for 45 minutes, thus ensuring my late arrival at tonight’s event. Thankfully, my post-bus five-minute dash in high heels proved to be worth its crippling effect, as I leapt into the main bar of The Northern on Tib Street just as Manchester-based comedian and compère for the night, Julian Daniel, reached for the microphone.

The Northern is one of those pubs that you’ll often find participating in local festivals and events, whether it’s a meeting of digital media professionals or a performance by some up-and-coming musical talent. It’s a lovely venue, too, and Mancunian at its heart and soul, from the northern-centric playlist, to the giant portrait of Mark E. Smith on the wall of the exterior smoking area. This evening, the pub had a warm and bustling atmosphere, with a sell-out audience responding enthusiastically from the offset to Julian’s friendly banter.

Never having been to a poetry slam before, I had no idea what to expect. Thankfully, our crowd-pleasing compère Julian laid out the rules from the start. Nine budding poets had signed up to compete against each other by standing up to the mic in turn and reciting their personally penned, witty verses in an attempt to take home the booty of a small cash prize, a bottle of bubbly generously donated by The Northern, a festival T-shirt and – perhaps most importantly of all – comedic kudos for the night.

Three volunteers from the audience – or groups of volunteers, as it turned out –were handed score sheets by Julian and appointed the heady task of judging the evening’s talent on behalf of us all. Our ability to applaud and volume of laughter were conscientiously tested by Julian before contestant number one was welcomed up to the mic.

As it turned out, a well-penned tirade against the 111 bus might not have felt out of place amongst the myriad of topics chosen to be immortalised in verse by our local bards, which ranged from the soul-crippling employee regulations of call centres, to the remarkably chewy nature of suppositories.

I have to pause here to apologise in advance for the inaccuracy of any of the poets’ names, but they all deserve a mention, even a misspelt one, for their heroic and wholly entertaining participation on the night.

There was Mark Edmondson’s tragicomic tale of morbidly obese Denise and her mobility scooter; Dave Till’s hymn of praise to the exotic, amniotic delights of a well-drawn bath; Alex Keelan’s sweetly delivered satire on modern life and ‘Foetus Factor’; an enduring image from Misha Britna (on his first ever poetry slam attempt) of farting a pigeon out into the dire straits of a gale force wind; Jack Reagan’s rhythmic warnings of the perils of reading the small print in a packet of medication; Sophie Hall’s disdainful diatribe against the dastardly Davina McCall; Ben William’s dramatic despair at his discovery that the object of his affection was none other than the second female pope; Ed Kengai’s sometimes bewildering, often giggle-inducing concoction covering everything from orgies to bankers; and the winner of the night, Tony Walsh, and his confident, risqué depiction of the alcohol-fuelled decay of an office Christmas do from hell.

Julian’s banter and occasional contribution of his own poetry kept the momentum going at pace all night, while a guest performance of the superbly talented Marvin Cheeseman kept everyone in stitches during a half-time interval. If you’ve never come across his work before, I advise you to browse his website and look out for such gems as he performed on the evening as ‘Primark: the rumble in the jungle’, ‘The wholesomeness of Coldplay and their fans’ – and, of course, the short but sweet ditty that no born and bred Mancunian could resist:

We all have our dreams, and they sometimes come true:

Liverpool 1, Blackpool 2.

The mixture of structures, styles, experience and deliveries by the participating poets all added to the depth of the evening’s experience – as did some good-humoured, but heartfelt, booing at the harshness of the judges – and I left with a light-hearted (if still somewhat crippled) step, some unforgettable rhymes ringing in my head and (courtesy of Tony Walsh’s final poem on the triple evils of sex, the internet and confectionary) a vision of the possible uses of Monster Munch that I never want to sully my imagination with again *shudders*.

Rowena Forbes is a freelance copywriter, editor and journalist who dabbles in short stories and might even consider penning a poem or two in the future, once she gets over her foolish fuss about the 111 bus.

Manchester Sermon – It was funny, it was moving, it was powerful.

21st October

Like most people of my generation, barring weddings and funerals, I have not stepped foot in a church in twenty years. I thought the Manchester Sermon might be a nice place to break that habit. Happily I was right. It was a brilliant evening.

The location, Manchester Cathedral, is stunning. At night it is warm and welcoming at its centre, but at the edges lie gloomy corners, dark and full of mystery. Chocolate brown stone pillars prop up giant ceilings. Sodium street lights shine through stained glass windows. It is a venue that invites contemplation.

Canon Andrew Shanks introduced the evening by explaining the philosophy behind its conception (I’ll stop the religious puns now – sorry). The sermon, as a form, was until very recently a major branch of literature, practiced by some of the greatest British poets. The Manchester Sermon was an attempt to revive an almost lost part of our literary heritage. So unused to hearing a sermon is the majority of the audience that we are given a little hint of sermon etiquette. We are politely asked not to applause the sermon but to sit in silence for a few moments: “It’s like when you microwave something and leave it to stand.”

After the introduction, and before Jeanette Winterson speaks, a choir sings. The devil hasn’t got the best tunes, he just has a better press agent. The music is beautiful. Some of it, written in the time of the Tudors, is still incredibly effecting and the acoustics in the cathedral were stunning.

And then there is the Manchester Sermon itself. I’m afraid my notes get a bit sketchy here because I stopped writing and started listening. Winterson used the temptation of Christ in the desert as her base text, and from it delivered a secular sermon which looked at the current economic climate, celebrity culture, and our responsibilities to each other as human beings. It was funny, it was moving, it was powerful. It was surprisingly edgy. It was a triumph.

You can read it at the Manchester Literature Festival website and hear it on the BBC's.

The evening ended with a question and answer session. The questions were answered by Jeanette Winterson and Canon Andrew Shanks, and also the poets Michael Schmidt and Michael Symmons Roberts. The discussion was chaired by Rachel Mann.

The panel discussed whether or not we had heard a sermon, the need for spiritual guidance in an increasingly secular world and the place, and role, of the church during the terribly difficult economic period the country is entering.

At the risk of sounding controversial I would say that it may well be events like this that show the church’s relevance in the coming years. By interacting with the community, by reaching out, by being able to surprise, churches like Manchester Cathedral will continue to remain relevant and important. That the evening was such a success is due not only to Jeanette Winterson but also to churchmen and women like Shanks and Mann who are brave enough to open their doors to argument.

It would be hard not to be effected by the Manchester Sermon. It was important as well as being interesting. I hope very much it will be the first of many.

by Benjamin Judge

Benjamin is a sort-of writer whose blog Who the fudge is Benjamin Judge? was shortlisted for two awards at this year's Manchester Blog Awards. He also read from his one flamingo against the world novel at this year's Is There A Novelist In The House?

Uberto Stabile – revealing truth in the world he sees

21st October

I’m at the Instituto Cervantes of Manchester to hear Uberto Stabile talk at Manchester Literature Festival. I’ve heard his name before but know little about him. The translator sits in the transparent corner booth. You can hear her smack her lips in anticipation, gulping water anxiously. I feel important with my wireless headset on, writing notes on the little pop-out desk. From him to her to me to paper.

Uberto’s talk charts his life as a writer, poet and literary promoter. His poems, he says, are related to his environment and reality; it’s his way of revealing truth in the world he sees. So his talk is as much about Spain as it is about him. The tale of its transition from democracy to emancipated creative hub to debt-ridden capitalist state, is told by a man who is affected by the big picture, who cares deeply for people, and is compelled to make voices heard.

Born in Valencia in 1959 he was a teenager when Franco was overthrown. This is his generation’s great symbol; to be born under a dictator and be emancipated at the moment they needed it most. And yet they entered a world without the institutions we take for granted. State censorship had throttled Spanish literary culture to near death, banning books and preventing translations of foreign work. They entered a cultural void, with no one to look up to, with no precedent.

Spain’s economic decline in the mid-seventies after the death of Franco and the petrol crisis of 1975 made the transition from dictatorship to democracy a turbulent one. The first poem he reads us, Too Early, references the instability of the time:

‘It is raining / and the rain wet the washing we hung out yesterday / and it is pointless to bring it in / as pointless as to go to work / or to go out to buy some bread without money.’

Despite massive unemployment and a decade-long recession, the ‘80s was a productive time for Spanish writers as they organised themselves to publish their work. Photocopied and stapled they found a DIY solution that grew slowly in strength and numbers. Networks slowly became established across Spain, publications printing each other’s contact details at the back.

He compares Spain’s 80s with our 60s, a time of social and cultural experimentation and diversification, best illustrated by Madrid’s hedonistic ‘La Movida’ (Groove) scene. The cartoon gained greater credibility as a dynamic and socially critical art form. The debate over the Spanish identity opened up as suppressed regional accents and languages pushed for their place in mainstream society.

‘La Movida’ does little change gender relationships and imbalances however. He reads us And Then Tell Me That You Love Me, a poem he wrote after the 59th death from domestic violence in the year he wrote it:

‘You will have the right to vote / You will rent video / You will sleep alone / You will wonder about me / You will know how to cry when I forgive you… / …and then, tell me that you love me’

After finishing his degree in Art History in Valencia, Uberto ran a bookshop and continued his work publishing and promoting young and talented writers. But the ‘90s sees a political shift as the push for social freedom is replaced by the pursuit of wealth. Credit is easily available and debt builds as people pursue lifestyles they cannot afford.

I miss the political reference in the next poem, Spain is doing well, but I gather it refers to a statement by a prominent Spanish politician in the ‘90s. It mocks the superficial evaluation of Spain’s success despite a deep deficit, massive unemployment and record private debt:

‘”Spain is doing well...” / its economy, its bigot / its two million people out of work / and its lack of memory / even my watch’s well stopped / ...doing well / The press, the Banks, /mobile phones, / the deficit, Iberia, football, / the blank and yellow waves / the great public holiday / it goes well like this... on its own and without ice.’

Keeping up with the translator is hard as she stops mid-sentence adjusting her words, slowing and catching up. This is quite different from Uberto, who speaks in a constant expert tone with his soft Spanish drawl.

But the message is clear: Uberto believes in the written word and the need for voices, many voices, speaking about what they see and hear. At the heart of it is the essential need for reflexivity in a society, though the voices needn’t speak loudly. He speaks excitedly about the opportunities the internet presents in establishing new literary magazines and journals across the latin world. Diversity is essential and small publishers like him are essential to real democracy. They keep niche intellectual discussions running for when they’re needed; for when a society lapses into premature self-congratulation or stagnates into monoculture. You need the people at the fringes to remind us of what the complex truths are at the heart of identities led astray.

Or at least that’s what I reckon he means. I’d taken my headphones off a few minutes ago to rest my ears from the translator. Uberto reads his last poem, Gillespie Says. I miss the context but the end reads well:

‘Gillespie says that / it is not a finished man / the man that is finishing / that the ending never replaces then end, / because actually / Gillespie says that / Parker says to him / that Cortazar told him / that instead of making love / It’s about time for love to make us.

by Peter Stanners

Peter is a freelance writer and photographer with bases in Manchester, UK, and Copenhagen, DK. You can find out more about him here