côté cour & côté jardin

Old habits die hard


An empty stage demands respect. When we arrived for our four hour long technical rehearsal, Lerwick's Garrison Theatre felt like a great vessel's empty hull. Keith's Morrison & David Wagstaff's team of technicians - light, sound engineers hovered like sailors back and forth before the cast left the dressing rooms. 
I sat in  the front row on the old velvet chair and watched the crew at work.

I love the warmth of each spotlight. Arrays of colours lit the very belly of our craft.  When I look back at those moments, I remember an array of orange and yellow shining on the chair placed in the centre of the stage.  In the backdrop, a blue ocean.  

Peter eventually sat on the chair, as light beamed down. 

Serpentine's  "A" was just about to shine and emerge from a mist of smoke. Peter Ratter's Three Brides - The Un-Wed  did not fail to impress, neither during technical rehearsal nor  at this year's 62nd Shetland County Drama Festival.  Avant-garde, from the technical, production and visual viewpoints, it did not leave the 2012 adjudicator indifferent.  How could it?

The visual stunner 

Prompts, costumes, make-up, monologues, repartee, light. Peter  playwright & director made it a show to remember. Powerful snapshots of Gothic literature united from his brainchild and vision. 

Judge for yourself. 

The Count, The Creator & Created and the Poet... 

Their unwed brides. 

The play was presented on Friday 16 March 2012 at The Garrison.

Then lights switched off and back on for a second time on côté cour & côté jardin once the set for Jane McKay's If You Go Down To The Woods was ready for its Première on the following night.

We spent evenings of laughter, passion and devotion to bring the farce to its climax. 

On côté jardin (left handside of the stage from the audience's viewpoint), a white door where mystery and misunderstandings would emerge... On côté cour (right handside of the stage), a black door, from which more confusion via strange comings & goings would flourish and unFURl.... Hungover Dan soon woke up to un-real moments!  Clues of many kinds - furry gloves by Betty's French friend, Monique, red sauce by a sleazy photographer, Frank, a strange creature captured & printed by Graham, and even a parcel by a pothead, yes, the Deliveryman! - would ultimately reveal a farcical tale of a very furry kind.  Betty's falling in love with Frank.
The Norwicks' kitchen will never be the same again!
Betty tries to lure us with her sudden escapades to the ponies... Igraine is young and naive... Janet, her friend, tries to keep Igraine's feet on earth. Monique cannot put her hands on Betty until she brings a rolled sheepskin... 


Shock horror! Betty and Frank - two consenting adults - armed with a knife, tail-chase themselves like two children!

Directed by Jonathan Sinclair, If You Go Down To The Woods, kept us  on our toes till its première, and received an award for Jonathan's debut as Director. 

Congratulations to all involved in this madness - weekly Tuesday nights and Sunday afternoons are tattooed in my heart with sheer moments of giggles and laughters!

What a great remedy to winter blues!

On a more personal point, it was a formidable opportunity to rekindle my flame for theatre and be part of such a great adventure, the very first of many to come, as a member of Serpentine Drama Group. 

Born To Be Wild! 

Oh, and if you want a taste of it, just click here!

Etat d'esprit

frame of mind


in 
one
world,


in one song.

And now the storm has gone, let's wander to the shore.

Late night fun for new project

Nat Hall,
nordicblackbird


after the blog,
myspace, twitter... the blackbird now sings on soundcloud.com


thanks to a pal, who posts as well and inspired.


The first two tracks were recorded just a little while ago, at a time when poetry was turned into sound. We were then experimenting with the spoken word as narrative inside a song when the words were not sung altogether...
Some never made it to the project. So they now have a new home and purpose. 
More will follow, as material fills folders. 


I still remember poet, editor and performer, John Hudson, telling me that my voice was my brand when performing poetry. There, you go, John - I have found a nouveau souffle through this platform. 


And I intend to have fun with it.


Have added the site in the "HOMEWORLDS" Section on the right hand side of the blog. 


And now to the kindred spirit who inspired,

You find him here:

Alastair Cook

Thank you, dear Al :-)

50 Words for Snow

Revealed 


It's just past midnight and it feels like Christmas! 
All the reviews read unanimous,
Kate's ten studio album, 50 Words For Snow, is her latest masterpiece.


A formidable tour de force, Kate releases not only one, but a second album in one year! Director's Cut revisited a patchwork of old songs revamped to suit her taste as fully finished work... In its footsteps follows a mystical album, fresh from her world. For your pleasure: Kate's home site: Fish People

It is a seasonal hymn to joy, as much as Aerial in its very own right.


It is currently downloading in " my little black box" (iPod's) iTunes... It is already imprinted in my heart. And if you want to give it a first listen before you order it, 
please visit: 50 Words For Snow 

Thank you, Kate, for a wonderful

album. Wild Man was a magical hors d'oeuvre!

With all the very best wishes, Kate & The Fish People! 

With grateful, very grateful thanks for the photographs,

they are wonderful!

post scriptum to "new writing adventure"

This much anticipated adventure with The Serpentine Writers/Drama Group has begun in earnest!


...Am back into Theatre.


Happy poet :-)

New writing adventure

Am really  looking forward to joining The Serpentine Writers' Group this month, as this will enable further creative growth, which I take as a new challenge. I humbly accepted friend, poet, playwright and actress Jane McKay's invitation earlier on in the summer and  am now eager to share with the group. Jane has kept a critical eye over my verse (haiku & other forms) for some time now and may this new association allow my work to find a new élan & flourish in a new environment.

Serpentine Writers

Our very first gathering is scheduled for this Thursday (3 November) at The Shetland Library. New material is ready. Joining a new group is always exciting, as I still remember the very first steps into Shetland Arts (Trust)'s writers groups, South, Lerwick and Westside. 

New eyes, blood and pens. 

Tales of Mystery & Terror

Calling to the spirits


A warmish breeze blows around the walls of my home. Not a living soul wanders at this time in the night. Sweeties await all those who dare knock on my door. A small army of Trick-or-Treaters usually brave wildest of gusts. 

Strange, as the final night of October usually feels crisper. Have lit candles around each room, carved my pumpkin just after dusk... Nightfall so precocious now clocks reverted to Nordic blackness. It is a time of reflection as flames follow dance of shadows. Tonight, we celebrate spirits of all our departed loved ones to the Other world. 


Tonight, my heart welcomes Samhain , the autumn's farming festival, with warmth and compassion.




Three nights ago, we were applauding our Shetland Librarians, who put a show in full spirit and regalia. Led by Karen Fraser & her gang of intrepid colleagues, actors, poets and musicians entertained a gathering of fine folk for nearly two hours. Shetland Library 's Second Edition of Halloween Night, Tales of Mystery & Terror, starred local based Serpentine Drama Group among other troubadours.
Kat(astrophe) Brack opened the ball with accounts of chilling short stories, a poignant war poem and a wacky rap! Her very first attempt in the (third) genre she confessed on the night! The Hellish Fiddler kept everybody on their toes (and ears) in-between each act...
Then entered Serpentine , with a chilling tale entitled Three Brides, 
led by writer, playwright & actress Jane McKay. The troupe of formidable amateur actors kept the audience on edge till the very end. 

Jordan "Ogre" closed the curtain for Part One with a string of sombre, ghostly songs acoustic style. Our Hellish Fiddler, as pictured in the background, behaved herself till our hostess invited the whole assembly to potions and elixirs during the interlude. Her shrieking fiddle remained silent, as Jordan struck the final chords on his guitar.

Nat H(orrid), the Blackbird from the north, as introduced by Miss Fraser, opened the second part of the evening's entertainment... Two poems, acrostic Halloween & The Ferryman, especially written for the occasion, were shared among two other characters, The Ghoul, by American poet Jack Prelutsky and The Hag, by English poet Robert Herrick.


Serpentine's masters of speech, through Debbie Nicolson & Peter Ratter, delighted the audience further with delightful performances in their own style and verve. Peter even had to drop his fangs for more palatable enunciation! But then, Morag appeared on stage with a chilling & true account of horror based on her ancestor's involvement with Yell's most horrific (and world famous) spooky home, Windhouse. The tone was now firmly set in red tarnished darkness! 

"Milford The Malevolent" (usually so reserved around the library...) closed the night's catalogue of Tales of Mystery & Terror with un certain je ne sais quoi of light-heartedness and savage guitar riffs, which kept the entire assembly in effroi and laughters - that is, once he plugged in his Gibson and let it resonate in utter amplified horrid style! An impromptu technical contre-temps was so delicately filled by our dear Hellish Fiddler with a certain delight, as she was eventually let loose for some serious deafening solo triads whilst Milford was getting ready! ...What a night! Until next October, Our dear hellish Fiddler will remain an angel. 

My grateful thanks for your invitation, dear Shetland Librarians. 

Performing under your roof remains a pleasure.

Now, over one hour has passed since I began tonight's entry, and not a single set of knuckles resonated on the wood of my front door. Spooky, as my pumpkin still signals my will to treat. maybe they will appear later... Maybe they met with the spirits and decided to play elsewhere. October's final gusts sweep this evening's hours and makes way to November.

Here's to you all:

Halloween

Hail the spirits

Around trick-or-treat

Lollipop, candy, sweet death,

Lemon –

Open your door to Jack,

Witches, ghouls, free that night,

Even carved pumpkin smiles at windows…

Ecstasy through the eyes of ravens,

Nacarat on long sleeves of scarecrows.

© Nat Hall 2011

The Ferryman

Welcome to the Gates of Hades,

where sailors throw coins to the gods,

adrift between heaven & hell,

knell of blue swell

on wooden hulls...

Don't look for the Isle of the Blest,

no need to bribe the ferryman.

Listen for silence from shadows

who wander through dark-dreary land;

now throw your flowers

inside hell,

knell of blue swell

against your hull,

pay your due to the ferryman.

Hold on to the side of your boat,

where water bears so many names:

river of woe, fire or hate,

lamentation, forgetfulness...

Now raise your glass to the raven,

heaven or hell,

knell of blue swell,

one-way fare to the ferryman.

© Nat Hall 2011

Happy Samhain, Happy Halloween!

pictorial

...Can you hear it, can you hear it screaming? Oppressive, with shafts of madness, burning white. It holds bolts of hailstorms; unleashes ice, surgical blades, beyond belief and darkens wings of all angels... It holds hostage our precious sun, and will not beg for redemption.

power of words

I love my local library.


It is home to countless treasures: pages, poets, poetry nights, number of smiles beyond all words.

Our librarians are devoted to share the power of the print, recorded voice or fiddler's bid and endeavour  to devour miles across islands to reach out to communities separated by roaring tides. 

As a poet, such devotion goes well beyond might of the pen!


So, here and there, we come to gather and air pages or a song... Inside the walls of Ringan's Church at the Hillhead, we are blessed by such dynamic team! Our librarians have a passion to share might of the spoken word and provides writings with a home, where we belong in all seasons...

Last Saturday was Open Mic' - three minutes of pleasure per poet or participating reader. 

Thank you, Fiona, for such evening - thank you, dear Shetland Library, for harbouring so many treasures and a home! Shetland Library

In this cycle of creation, poetry nights feel de rigueur.

National Poetry Day: on the topic of home

In anticipation to today's celebration of the spoken word, I wrote a haiku.

Today's da Day! 

And on the theme of home,here is a humble contribution, as I add my stones to the edifice.

HOME 

Colourful world.

On either side of the mountain,

ice melts, rock hangs,

dam, water falls.

Deep in the U of the valley,

a porch, a key,

white plume of smoke.

A blended scent of peat & salt

so close & far from the ocean,

spiders tip-toe on varnished boards...

Piled up books sleep under thin dust -

cold ashes fill your coal bucket.

Wood chips tangled in sheepskin rugs,

like secret love in a locket;

your fingerprints

on every switch, tap,

bannister, pot and handles.

Your favourite painting on the wall...

Palette of petals in a vase,

everlasting dripping

of wax beyond our Moon & Orion

caught in a net framed for our dreams,

your universe through one keyhole.

© Nat Hall 2010
National Poetry Day, 7 October 2010
Theme: home

wild shore!

the "big" sea

Today I felt the ocean rush, as I walked towards the big waves.

Light has returned on the island. Yesterday's hellery  died away in our sleep... As a matter of precaution, we checked the roof for dislodged tiles.

 The afternoon shone in pale blue

 Wave upon wave, the very edge of our own world endured the might the North Sea. 
 ...Like an army, those relentless rollers crashed against rocks - their every crest defied the sky, and dressed boulders with shameless lace, as if to hide October's skin. 

 before ending up in honey

I sat a moment by the shore and questioned the whole universe.

on the nature of the divine

heart struck by your wisdom,

                as waves, foam & bubbles,
                     similar to water,
                         even our universe is mirrored
in our souls*

thunder so powerful,
I can forget my pain –

            the Holy has so many names, it is nameless;
                so many forms, it stands formless,
                      and since it speaks so many tongues,
                       why not consider Him speechless?**

let me re-consider your name;

                the great abode,
                  like water moving in secret,
                    Being & non-Being – in potter’s shops,
                        vessels of various shapes yet made with that same clay ***
      
your love on every hand,

                and when I speak of the Mother,
                    it is coiled & fast asleep in all centres – awake, potent,
                       above our heads, descending on us to transform;
                        nature of love, wide, pure, divine.****


northern garden, 24 October 2008

poet’s notes:
*) after Ashtavakra, Samhita, II, 4.
**) after Mahatma Gandhi, Young India, 1931.
***) after Mundaka Apnishad, 11, 2, 1-2 & Sayings of Shri Ramakrishna, No. 457
****) After Shri Aurobindo, On The Mother, pp 501-3.

stormday

 first day of October
And the island is enduring Storm Force 10 as a wake-up call to the darkest of season...
Whereas September dazzled hearts with rainbows, October began in blueness.
But then, as wind awakes...

The following piece, written just over a year ago, describes this moment of earthly madness - as felt inside my very own nordic home! ...As well as published by Pushing Out The Boat earlier on this year.
 

Stormday

What do we do when the wind wakes?

Some take to bottle in despair, as if to gulp an illusion –
others tuck in deep in their yarns,
light wax towers,
hail to Mary,
holy gale,
gust,
hissing disguise
of earth disgust through wildest skies,
as heavens send their cavalry;

some wonder what it’s all about.

Floorboards tremble under our feet,
everything shakes all around us like a spinning washing machine –
birds fly like crabs in wild airflows,
won’t hang our shirts till next Wednesday….
Sunset looks like pale flamingos.

Others switch on marine forecasts.

I still remember fishermen who moor wisdom tight on bollards;
pride iced inside a blue fishbox, their living anchored to tight rope,
as water hits without hatred, jealousy, discrimination.

Will drown my fears in cullen skink,
    most of us grasp tongue of the storm.

© Nat Hall 2009

from hellery to heaven

will power

Last Thursday was a hellery.

Doom, iron cast inside my head, as I sat inside a cold room filled with benches, hollow voices, fears and remorse.
When one feels collapse of the world, all slips away through tiles and stones... La comedia del arte dressed in black.
Thank goodness, friends surrounded me.
I shall remember it for a while - wet flagstones recorded our every step until drizzle turned into fog.

and so is hairst

September filled with silver heads, even iris leaves turn to rust, as chlorophyll becomes weaker... Everything changes around us - precocious signs of early gale, the haste with which birds fly away; even ravens seem much darker. Our every sound, voe and wick become a paddock filled with horses' manes. Soon we shall vanish in blackness.

this precious little book of zen

Zen is easy. Zen is life, exactly as it is, here and now. At the heart of Zen is a sense that we are all part of something greater, just like each wave, part of the ocean.

So I went out to be at one with the rest of our universe and stirred my yin inside my yang... 

 

string of haikus 

 

Plop, plop, plop,

precocious splash kissed our slate tiles -

love letter from autumn.

Feel my shimmer,

equinox breeze through heather bells,

purple wind chime.

 

 

 

 Shamanic world,

drum and birdsong inside your head -

feel the feathers of the blackbird.

 

© Nat Hall 2010

 

...On a lighter note, Kevin MacNeil would smile. I still vividly remember how pitiful I sounded at his haiku workshop series in Lerwick a few autumns ago... There you go, poet-friend and reader, may hellery turn to heaven!  ;-)