Old Man, Outside In

The Leonard Maguire 'Great Lives' programme aired on BBC Radio 4 yesterday. It's now listenable-again, here - and if you do listen to it, and enjoy it, you might like to read the text of the poem written and read by actor John Bett. 

My own - so far, my only - poem about my father is 'Old Man, Outside In'; both the poem and the title came from - well, experience, memory, of course, but also from looking through a bundle of photographs from his childhood, and being struck by his expressions.

One shows him in a white linen sailor suit, probably in Belgium, aged about 2; another in his first school uniform, blazer & short trousers, neatly brushed blonde hair, aged perhaps 5.  I can't lay my hands on them just now, but in any case I don't think I'd post them here. I feel protective of that child's privacy. His gaze was, even then, both curious, looking out, and guarded, aware of the world looking back at him.

So this poem was/is, I think, an investigation through the lens of time; looking at the older man, who knew his time was limited, and underneath that - the palimpsest - to the younger versions, all the way back to the boy who didn't know what his life was going to be...but who never stopped being curious.

 Mais, ca s'explique!

Erratum: the date at the top is an error (mine, worsening eyesight) - d. 1997 not '77.

'Old Man, Outside In' is from my collection 'How To Hug', published by Mariscat, 2009.

The trouble with blogging..

The trouble with blogging on Blogger is that when you're writing a post, and re-writing it, editing it, saving it, and previewing it, a task that may take hours, your eyes get tired, so that spelling errors creep in.. (e.g posts referring to Matthew Parris as Matthew Pariss. Tut-tut. Ed.)

Why, you ask with barely concealed impatience, do I not spell-check everything?

Because although that's something I'd do for any piece that was being published by someone else - a newspaper, a literary editor, an important submission, etc - it's not something I associate with email, or twitter, or blogging.

Those are formats for communication which differ - in my mind - from the more composed pieces I'd call 'my work'.

Reading back through earlier posts I do frequently notice things incorrectly spelt and wince a bit, but tend not to edit or update them because of the way Blogger works. Each tiny correction would, I gather, cause the post to be reissued to those who've signed up for it, and those unfortunate recipients to wonder what tiny thing had changed between drafts. That would swiftly become extremely annoying.

(I could compose and edit stuff off-line and then post it, yes, that's true - but that just adds to the time involved in the whole process, and contradicts the nature of the blogging experience, for me anyway.)

I'm talking about vanity, I suppose. I like to discard the usual standards of professionalism a little bit when I'm online; to stow any anxiety about spelling and perfect syntax and finely nuanced phrasing in the attic, reclaiming it as part of my writing-identity where it's most useful - for writing fiction, prose, poetry.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.

On the other hand... now I've got this stubborn issue out of my psyche and examined it, perhaps I will start spellchecking everything... hm...

*finger hovers over 'publish' button*

Whose story is it?

I've recently set up a webpage in the name of my late father, Leonard Maguire. For the sake of simplicity, I've made it a Blogger page, which rather implies that he is blogging 'from the grave' (or from Heaven. Ed.) That's an unintentionally comic idea of which he might approve (if he could grasp what 'blogs' are). It also reminds me of the story of Kynd Kittock going to Heaven, how she sneaked through the Pearly Gates when St Peter wasn't looking (it's in a poem thought to be by William Dunbar, about whom my father wrote a stage play 'The Wasting of Dunbar', in 1976)

The point of setting up the page is partly to provide background information for those who might listen to the forthcoming BBC Radio 4  Great Lives episode devoted to him, as championed by Bill Paterson (and side-kicked by me); the other reason is that, actually, he does have a wonderful series of stories to tell, and some day I'd like to tell more of them, on his behalf - i.e., in his words, and in mine.

A book, some kind of memoir? Why not? Perhaps a joint memoir with my mother, pulled together and edited by me. Both parents wrote screeds of biographical narrative, by request of their children. The story of their lives, working & private, covers the years from 1917, when my mother was born, to 2008 when she died (my father b.1924 - d. 1997).

Here's a photo of the happy couple, Frances and Leonard, in their first home together. Note the ubiquitous cigarette in my father's hand. Note the tie (he never wore one; this pic is from a rather stagey 'at home' series instigated and snapped by his older sister, Kay, visiting from Canada, c. 1956)  My mother, in the covetable yellow cardigan and intense red lipstick, looks to me impossibly young and beautiful. The tea-cups on the dresser on the right are from a Susie Cooper set. I think we still have some of them, and the stripey Cornishware jug.

The colours of the paintwork, the quality of the clothing they wear, their body-language, the presence of the 'home help' (I think) holding a pie (lemon meringue? apple?) resonate with me... however staged, the moment captured here by Aunt Kay makes me want to revisit the past, ask them about their lives, in one way or another.

(to be continued)