one world, many tongues

world poetics under one roof


When Kate called me to read in French, I knew she was up to something. Let me rewind to that final week of February. Somewhere, I read that the Island's main Library would host one of those nights when folk gather to share a verse, a tune or a stanza... Karen usually orchestrates those wonderful nights, but for this once, she would ally with the Adult Learning Centre  for something very special. And so she did. With Jen Hadfield as Reader in Residence, who, in the past already requested such reading in my native tongue, The International Poetry Night was born.


And what a night. 

Genny & Kate

On Friday 2 March, the Library kept its doors open till late. Our co-hosts gathered so many voices under one roof.  Karen always hosts such nights in style. This time, Orkney beer and fudge were available to be sampled at the event's interval. 
Whereas Jen made a very brief introductory appearance, her co-hosts, Kate and Genny, enacted a farcical scene before a fifty strong audience. 

Polish born Klaudia Marosek

So many voices, languages filtered through the mesh of the open mic'. English, Polish, Hungarian, Lithuanian, Bulgarian, Russian, Frisian, Gaelic, Shetland dialect, French, Moroccan, Malaysian... A world symphony motion!  It felt just home.
Not only poetry, but songs and dance for some of the performers. 

Local fiddlers Bernadette & Jim

This night of world celebration united fantastic voices, who have elected their home on the island,   

Bulgarian born Radina, with Alan

Nordicblackbird in full swing

would remind us all that their respective native tongue adds so many colours to the poetics of such a small community such as ours. Cultural joy to be able to breathe and walk through life with more than one language. Too many folk take it for granted. And although Shetlanders experience such bi-lingualism through their own dialect and English,  their own midder tongue once suffered through cultural cleansing at the start of the 20th century, when English reigned king in the classroom. Too many local dialects, patois and languages have suffered too much already. In an effort to revive local languages and dialects, regions revive their own, hence declaring their unique cultural distinctions. At local level, the island thrives to keep it going and has even taken the step to re-introduce it in today's classroom, via Shetland ForWirds, even though it is fighting against  linguistic imperialism as notably exposed by today's media. 

Hungarian born Fari Batai

Jen at the mic'

For the first time, I discovered Robert Burns in Hungarian through Fari's voice. How enchanting! Re-discovered the magic of those more northern and eastern European languages. Whit a hansel! What a present!
To hear it, or any language spoken by folk in the island really defines the wealth of our local community.
Jen reappeared during the session to share with us her version of  a traditional Irish tune entitled She Moved Through the Fair - a song which is familiar to my heart thanks to Kate Bush's own version. Precious moment from our Reader in Residence.


Steve Davidson and Alan McKay closed the Open Mic' session with a Gallic tune, a bourrée. (Part One)
Scot born Steve is a francophile and an avid & very accomplished musician, who spends parts of his summer holidays somewhere in Auvergne (among his favourite destinations) with a gang of kindred spirits in an attempt to widen his love of traditional Gallic music. 


For Steve & Alan's Bourrée (Part2), please click here. 

Shetland Library's hospitality

My renewed thanks to Karen and Kate for such a brilliant night of celebration. Blending with the world feels such a privilege, especially when we live on an island somewhere in the North Atlantic.

                                                                              

late night listening

Geopoetical rhythms


Over the winter, late nights have unveiled magic. Magic of Northern Lights, listening to night, turn of the tide, gale, gusts or breeze...


I love the sounds of earthly moments that take you away from the consistent bombardment of a "noisy" world in its many forms. Tonight, the wind has dropped and I imagine rainfall between The Minch and the island. 


And then, music comes through the hut. Piano and voice. Kate Bush's music plays late tonight too. I was in the middle of "Misty" when I interrupted that wonderful song for a rare interview with Kate. And what an interview! 


Please click here for a moment of joy, punctuated with Kate's giggles and humanity.

Some great insight into her world.

Stravaig is out!

Geopoetics in motion


Feel free to click. The Scottish Centre for Geopoetics, led by Scottish poet & essayist Norman Bissell, released Stravaig online. Issue 1 has found freedom inside the cyberworld and its content is exciting! Friends, poets, writers, essayists, artists, photographers, designers and filmakers creatively mapped, chartered inside one world. It's... Exciting! There is a place for everyone who practises the discipline of intellectual nomadism. 


I still remember a friend who once asked me, "what is Geopoetics?" My poetic heart & mind attempted to describe something like "the natural art of opening to a world, finding our place within it and celebrating our connection with this very world within the realms of every rock, mountain and shore... This natural, real world, in which every rock, shell, sandgrain, snowflake, birdsong, flower counts. Not somebody's delusional mind - but the very cross-disciplinary movement to this world in which our human intelligence interacts. The widening of our knowledge to cross-cultural bonds, just like the crossing of continents via the ancient (now submerged) land bridges... Kenneth White speaks of walking away from those motorways of western civilisations in which too many generations of our ancestors met a dead-end by keeping their scope on one-way roads. Geopoetics offers freedom to wander whilst embracing a world intelligence, the human spirit and creative genius, irrespective of civilisation. This international movement has found many adepts over time, and The Scottish Centre for Geopoetics belongs to this Archipelago of current, practising intellectual nomads for our region (and beyond), which remains, White's native homeground. 

Stravaig, this wonderful Scot word meaning stroll, wander, will cross your way, I hope. 

Place, culture, world,  in the words of Kenneth White.

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.

Metasaga

finding our place

Geopoetics, intellectual nomadism, metasaga...

When selecting my training courses for my October two-day In-Service Training last September, I came across one that immediately spoke to my heart. Its description read fascinating - its title said it all. Metasaga.
My new term began with a bang, as I met with a very inspiring course leader and group whilst on a on that particular course at school. Firstly, I was a little astonished to find the course under-subscribed... However, I felt far less surprised to find two of my fellow local poets/artists among our group, Fair Isle based Lise Sinclair and Hebridean bard & writer, Donald S. Murray, who teaches English in Sandwick. As a matter of fact, all participants were involved in the Arts at educational level. 

Wunjo, rune of joy, light

A token of somebody's love... Friendship engraved on a stone, which finds its place around my neck. I made sure I would not forget it on my journey through autumn term. Metasaga is a compound word formed out of two words, meta, from metaphor and saga, from our neighbouring nordic friends. Storytelling is very much interwoven in the history & cultural heritage.  As soon as our course leader began to explain what we were to undertake, my geopoetical heart began to sing deep inside!
Uyesound School headteacher Kate Coutts spoke very much like Kenneth White, father of Geopoetics, the albatross and intellectuial nomadism; she aims to help us  find our place in the world around us by taking us on an inner journey.

Metasaga does not answer questions - it enables each journeyman to ask much deeper questions about him/herself in this world through culture, heritage and physical landscape.. 

Needless to say we did not stay very long in the classroom, for some adventure was waiting for us! Re-starting school in late October in not so clement weather conditions, I would have been surprised to spend an afternoon at Ninian Sands or even more nearby beach...Instead, we found ourselves meandering in and around our local museum and archives in Lerwick. Perfect! The museum houses everything we needed to undertake this shared inner journey. We each  picked a spot, an object, a moment. Delight. We thought of themes, values, packaged the lot in some educational and/or more personal context... Dressed it with questions, pictures. We used our creativity, poetics, to make it happen and found joy in creating our group metasaga. 


Result: two fabulous days. Geopoetics, metasaga in the making. Please click! Shetland Metasaga

What a formidable tool to respond to individuals, young or slightly older to find themselves. Although Kate re-iterarted this was in no way a new concept, she nonetheless packaged it with grace to notably meet the needs of all, including those of our Scottish Curriculum for Excellence. 
Next step? To introduce colleagues and pupils at my school and start sharing all its benefits! It has started. Our world is in motion.

Kenneth White will smile again. We, the intellectual nomads, have an additional way to find our place in the world. 

Metasaga belongs to us.

Please click on this link Metasaga Home

fractured bearings

when that poem sounds like an anthem

Strange feelings have filled my heart since yesterday. 
In the light of the spoon-fed world, I was saddened by the news of Scotland's greatest poet the 20th century has ever met. Mr Morgan has inhabited my creative star ever since I collided with that visionary rendez-vous. 

Native American wisdom reminds us all there is no death - only a change of world

Very well. Let's celebrate the poetics of such great man. Instinctively, I read it out to a close friend as a remedy to poison. His spoken world is alive forever. The only link I need to add is my favourite space poem of his... offcourse
Such moment of glory resonates forever. Unlike any rock or metal, it will neither erode or corrode... However exposed to the sea.

in-between Glasgow and Sandwick

But then, in the midst of that unforeseen eclipse, new constellations merge in innerspace... No collision. Funny enough, I was conversing with Norrie via FB when kindred spirits met in the rain, there on tarmac of some carpark before they decided to celebrate their connection over a pint... Friday night belongs to poets who paint one world and share visions. Tonight, Kenneth White on our lips, as we celebrated the poetics of our respective shores.That talented photographer from Glasgow can be found here: Ruth 's constellation

How grateful to Alistair Cook I feel tonight! Kindred spirits really shine and find their way through the ever expanding world we call cosmos.

Now let us re-count shooting stars ;-)

taste of summer

Only a few hours ago,  it was all so different then... 

If I could smell my end of term like drying kelp on the shore, now I can see and feel starlings feasting on it!

June went out with a bang... Light night, shetland-blue in colour, placid, peaceful.
July began with rain and fog. Yet the island feels mysterious and by some twist of cosmic proportion, blue filled our impetuous sky as school bell went.  We rushed outside to the harbour in search of light, friendly faces and tasteful lunch :).

The island still harbours the world... If hamefarers made their way back to their place of birth, visitors wander through da street and Esplanade, always in search of adventures. Today Marco Polo anchored in Bressay Sound. 


Too soon again, I'll put back on my guiding cap and share treasures with explorers! :)

Others wander across oceans en solitaire to moor moments in one harbour...

Of all the flags found along bollards, I pictured this one at lunchtime. One day ago, Thurs 1 July, Canada celebrated a birthday. My heart does not forget dear friends from Atlantic or Pacific... 


Talking of which...


Atlantic Home 

Oh, wow, I found a bottle in the sea.
water-washed words,
it spoke of shores,
my horizon can imagine...
and I, the raven follower, begin to dream;
Richibucto,
Kouchibouguac,
Blueberry Field, Miscou Island,
Hopwell Rocks,
Chignecto Bay, Bay of Fundy,
your Confederation bridge as a lifeline to Prince Edward and unity -
raven's homeground, twin with my world...
North Cape,
Pleasant Valley,
East Point Lighthouse,
Peggy's Cove,
Caribou,
Cape Breton,
Ile Madame... I love this sudden switch of tongue!
au nom des lèvres du St Laurent

Now I feel home on either side of Atlantic.

Nat, 5 april/avril 2009

Atlantik Hame 

Der, I fin dee a'da shoormal,
wirds fae dy wirld ida bottle laek a hansel by da banks broo,
dey spaek o mony geos an taings,
laand oda corbie an da craa…
Noo let me tell dee o me side,
fae Muckle Flugga ta Foula,
a hundert islaand ida sang whar I feel hame
atween solan an Atlantik…
Fair Isle, Papa Stour, Muckle Roe.
Fae da mainlaand,
Tangwick,
Eshaness, wir wastside –
Saint Magnus Bay
ta protect wis.
Dat brig o saand
ta Saint Ninian mair ta da sooth…
Simmerdim,
sky athoot da staars,
whar men still wirk ida paet banks,
an peerie fokk hide ahind stanes…
du micht even see a njuggle drink ida burn if du’sna fairt.
…I too switch tongues to please my heart,
my nordic home and Atlantic.

© Nat Hall 2009  

pushing out the boat

we, the children of fishermen

Miles away from the word festival at Aberdeen University, I pushed the boat in Shetland blue. 
North East Scotland's  anthology of new writing, foreworded by Shetland poetess Christine De Luca, was launched today in the granite city. Thank you to the editorial team for including Stormday.
Pushing Out The Boat

Today,  anything but a stormday.

In the grandeur of 60N,  I hopped on islands like a child and let the light fill my heart. This Sunday was tainted in hues that are synonym with summer... So I watched my world through the lens. And when I seek either solace or redemption, I always end up at Ninian.

I love this sandbridge in late afternoon. I'm usually alone with birds and diamond sea...  Summer has reached north atlantic, as three surfers ventured inside turquoise waters before tea time.

There at low tide, sand was littered with sugar kelp. So I went closer to the rocks and felt the power of our world - the mechanics of the cosmos, as water filled sandy channels, every cubic inch of rockpool...

And followed tracks across the sand, the many grains of wilderness.

One final thought on that new day, 
(Monday) 17 May.

For the very first time in 26 years, I will look at it without fear and will celebrate in Lerwick Norway's Constitution Day with my buddies from either side of the northworld :)
Norwegian Constitution Day

When poets meet and walk the shore...

Intellectual nomadism in action 

Our words sometimes feel like seaglass - colourful, insignificant... Hiding among sea and sand grains, washed on a shore; undetected until one hand picks them away and accepts each as a gem stone.

Summer belongs to the comber. As splash zones turn into treasure chests, we look for something different. 

Whenever I can, I share slices of summer with close friends, either poets or earth nomads, who dare to swim in any sea, from the Baltic to Atlantic .

That day, we sought seaglass at Sandsayre. Our hands gathered Arcania's gold - seashells, strange stones, driftwood and multi-bruck.   
We drove back to her citadel on the hillside and sat at the table.There,our fingers dived inside the  bag and scattered the loot all around. We shared coffee, paper and pens. And re-constructed the moment through a poem so spontaneous, as each line fed off each oither's words. It's been sleeping in a folder for four years now and like seaglass, i look at it as a treasure.
It's called Your Driftwood.

YOUR DRIFTWOOD

Look no further than on the side of this ocean,

water green salt – deep & unknown just like my fear,

            this fear to jump, panic and drown

there is no…                                                        

hesitation in me?                

I am floating…

What if I fall in the water?

You are driftwood, lifeline on waves;

    that bit of you I’m holding on above brown kelp like a dratsie

I am the sea, the smoke,    

the fireplace, the warming coal,                      

you are the shelter castigated in bird’s song…

    sea-salt-drift-soul, I taste your love inside rollers,

    my nightmare tossed, smashed in the glass of the shoormal

drying up?                                           

Faded by the sun,               

smaller & smaller like sand grains?

 

   With you I ken I’ll never drown

whatever colour of the beach,

                                    water-wood-sand,

whatever language of the sea,

I hear it everywhere,

thought-drift-spell

  We drew no line in this blue hell,

metallic dream;

unspoken bowl of treasures,

touching me gently

the driftwood

like an invisible poem,

  ripples are humming lullabies

         distant echoes of sea stories,

fears draped in nets,

                        our smiles,

sundried.

Nat and Klaudia, Quarff, 3 Aygust 2006

selected world voices

Listen to the world, it is open...

As a child, I was once exposed a trio of Kabylian voices named after a range in the Atlas Mountains, Djurjura. I must confess it was a time when home was unafraid of other cultures... Although very little can be found on YouTube, their magic still shine on this link: Djurjura 

Later in life, I discovered Khaled, notably in duet with Brittany's great bard, Alan Stivell, on one of his albums, Douar,  but also love Khaled in French, and Aicha still remains a favourite Aicha ... But then again Alan Stivell with Youssou N'Dour A United Earth Part 1 ...Funny how a legacy of colonisation twangs like a rubberband... I treasure their voices.

And now I'm wandering further away eastwards,  other  world voices are reaching my heart.

Here is once at the following links: zakarya - best love song and Tara Jaff from Choman's world :)

Enjoy!

World Song

One world, a kaleidoscope of voices, cultures.

...A few more thoughts on the topic.

 What is culture but the fabric of a community - the quintessance of being, belonging to the world? 


As part of a child's education, learning one language is as important as being exposed to other cultures. Not only does the child gradually develops communications skills but he, she also learns to appreciate that cultural kaleidoscope of voices whilst appreciating his, her own.
 In my [geographically remote] part of the world, education integrates "global classroom" in an effort to enable young people to view the world beyond the physical boundaries of our isles. Last June, South Africa came to Shetland. What a fabulous opportunity for Shetlanders of all ages to be exposed and to mix with the Zulu culture through a common passion, that of music and dancing.


As part of one's cultural baggage, learning about others tears prejudice, stereotypes, fears apart. Too few priviledged ones have such possibility still.


Youssou N'Dour is playing on my iTunes - talking drums, djembe drums, drums, rhythms of Africa's West Coast, including his native Senegal, mixed with western instruments. His voice unites more than one community. My favourite opus of his is entitled Joko - the village. It begins with a very haunting tune, Wiri-Wiri, in which children's voices (in the background) transport you straight away inside "the village". Powerful.

I love Youssou's musical world. He encompasses that blend: singing in Wollof, English and French...  And if he could perform in other languages, I  believe he would not hesitate to do so. He's a world believer. Yama is another haunting song. You listen to the world - boys on a boat, rowing somewhere on the Atlantic...

Like wandering off a known shore and discovering others.
Through his artistic gift, Youssou educates, reaches out to both folk from his community as well as the rest of the world. 

Many other world artists scattered around the world have touched my heart. Furthermore and not too long ago, two artists decided to travel the world with basic recording equipment. They wanted to "record the world's many voices". The project was called One Giant Leap. Through a mixture of interviews revolving around universal themes (life, death, among many others) and songs performed by locals on the spot and selected western artists,  the project brings the world closer together in a very humane way.  World wisdom & culture celebrated without prejudice. What a breath of fresh air in a "boxed" world!


Encouraging such projects would liberate man's mind from many concepts, such as nationalism, which, as already experienced through history, engulfs entire communities into short or long-term conflicts. If I was taught in (western) philosophy that man was a natural born killer, I do not believe that man is born to suffer. Accepting each other's culture in this new millenium would indeed be deemed as a giant leap into celebrating one world. To this effect, the term biodiversity should not be restricted to the environment, hence to plants, animals whilst excluding mankind. After all, we very much belong to this ecological world.

What more?

Earlier on today, I received a lovely message in (what I believe to be) Portuguese. My humble knowledge of Spanish helped me surmount a linguistic barrier. Those friendly words both warmed my heart and reminded me how ecclectic the village is.

This music from the world remains universal.

Introspection

Hear that pulsar.

I don’t mind us quiet at night.
We have our realms, hidden flowers to tend and touch.
We need that land, edge of our ridge where we define bits of our sky;
that’s when our moon lines up with sun.

Let me watch us with eyes wide shut.

I don’t mind us in rotation,
our shadows resting in silence, leaning against hands of our clocks,
like silhouettes that never fear to cross their paths –

that’s when we feel Earth in motion,

we, fireflies in outer space.

As we let light ignite present,
we hear comets whisper warm words,
unsung riddles sprinkled with dust,
like lullabies on silver shores;

that’s when water reaches my mind.

My Buddha ego on boulder,
I let the world sing its own song & dream awake here on sandstone –
capsules of now caught in cold rain, there, cracked open
on northern skin, as dynamic as dreams at dawn,

like kelpies off equinox tides.

I just mind us, serene, anchored, happy to catch stars with bare hands.

Northern Garden, 7 April 2008                       

SPECIAL THANKS

Have met some amazing constellations ever since I've started blogging.

Networking, sharing our respective patch and celebrate ONE world among the many voices who walk the shore and honour it.

My humble stone to this planetary edifice begins to shine thanks to you all, and two fellow creative minds in particular more recently,

Juliet Wilson at http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/2010/02/creative-blogger-award.html , with whom we share a friend, Elizabeth M Rimmer at http://www.luchair.co.uk/gallery.html

Whilst Juliet Wilison, alias Crafty Green Poet, just awarded a creative blogger award to nordicblackbird.com, Elizabeth dedicated a space to showcase respective works.

 Nat the Nordicblackbird was light years away from imagining such rewards, especially at such early stage in blogging and she remains grateful and thank you for sharing your neck of the world with mine! 

Bloggers unite!!!

Thank you, merci :)

The Waterline

Earlier on tonight I smiled when I read RAJ's status on Facebook: "Alan's between Leith & Lerwick".
Mr Jamieson's adding his final touches to the forthcoming conference at Edinburgh University.

'BETWEEN LEITH & LERWICK'

An Academic Workshop sponsored by the Royal Society of Edinburgh

in assocation with Scottish Writing in the Nineteenth Century

March 6th 2010, Conference Room, David Hume Tower, University of Edinburgh. There are still a very few places available for this event and these can be reserved by emailing r.a.jamieson@ed.ac.uk

Somewhere between Lerwick and Leith  from where I stand.
Two harbours closely entwined through the herring, fish trade in a different century...  Like a lifeline between sailors, coopers and gutters. 

 There is a place where I tattooed a moment in Leith last spring... Another shore where my heart beats. A first poem was born out of it, From Lerwick to Leith

From Lerwick 2 Leith

You never see them fly back north.

In the iris of the gannet,

leagues of ocean crushed on my bow –

freed from the beam of each lighthouse,

I try to find sleep between waves,

as heart drifts away in spring swell,

I’ll cross your red bridge

tomorrow.

Beyond the wings of the solan,

miles of tarmac, crash barriers, criss-crossing green

against patches of mustard gorse –

eyes riveted to Scottish sky,

melting distance, junctions & lines…

I can see you at your window.

Amid the dream of the poet,

miles of stillness at traffic lights –

from the top of your capital,

I gaze at patch so maritime

stuck between two rows of facades,

that pace of life I learnt to drown north of your dormant volcano.

…Miles of pavement, whizzing headlights,

as traffic flies in double files,

our minds switched off little red men,

we’re gliding down to your harbour.

From one nomad to another,

we share the soul of the solan, defy the I of the gannets,

as we freeze time inside your den, like a treasure hidden in now…

An old friend said,

“we never see them fly back north.”

I disagree with that statement –

Leith or Lerwick,

they always return to the nest, never to forget a headland.

solan: gannet (Shetland dialect) 

© Nat Hall 2009

Edinburgh, 29-30 May 2009

But then another is born out of this memory... As I discover the magic of webcams on Google Earth & Google Maps, my little hand-palm device allows to flick here and forth... Hence delving back in time and location in an instant.


As a clin d'oeil to the great poet's status, let me now offer you its sibling, The Waterline.

		The Waterline

Let’s pin this moment on a map.

One night through this labyrinth of cobbles,

live corridors that twist & burn,

where you led me down to the Shore,

your urban side of the Shoormal

trapped inside locks, lights, boulevards,

where water sleeps deep inside docks.

Now let me dive back in bubbles –

through e-fisheyes

I’ll find my way and remember the Waterline,

your sanctuary in this whirlpool

where we anchored each other’s words

as you unleashed your every wave,

turned blood & body into salt.

And if I swing it all around,

I’ll find myself back in shallows –

imprint my beliefs deep in sand,

scroll again that chart in my hand

where you feel at one

with cobbles.

© Nat Hall 2010

   
Images of the waterline, shoormal in Shetland dialect.