Malika's Blog

My writing process: the third poem 'Sue talks to me'

There is story within a story here and I remember everything. That moment of contemplation, sitting in The Swan Room after seeing 'Love is My Sin' in the Swan Theatre. This was a performance of Shakespeare's sonnets by Michael Pennington (who has the greatest voice for recitation that I have ever heard) and Natasha Parry. I sat in a weird after show stupor drunk on sonnets and the echos of Michael's voice in my head, people around me were sitting with their cakes and teas talking about the production, reading bits of the sonnets from their own books. It was a little magical time in the warm room in the early Saturday morning of January. I was in heaven. I was just contemplating whether I should take out my own copy of Sonnets and poems by Shakespeare or continue to listen to the audience's feedback around me when a group of women approached and asked if they could sit at the table.

They began to ask about my Poet in Residence post and we began to talk about the production. Then I asked them if they had any stories to share about their relationship with the RSC. As usual they said no, they did not have anything to tell then launched into a reminiscence session about their visits over the years. I asked if I could record them and would they mind me using their material for my poem or the blog.

Once the recorder was switched on one of the women became the main spokesperson for the group. She told me about the first time that she had attended a play at the RSC with her school friend, the friends mother and a man friend of the mother – who she has since realised was not an uncle as she had been led to believe. She remembered sitting in a box for the performance and eating in a posh restaurant afterwards. She told me that these women had been friends since school, when they used to hitch hike to the RSC from Coventry to watch Shakespeare. She spoke about the queues and their various crushes on various actors throughout their time visiting. They continued to visit as a group even when they got married, had children, and became grandmothers. It was a wonderful narrative about life long friendships, rituals and love. I was enthralled.

But the hair on my arm raised when one of her friends spoke about her visit to see the last play in the theatre. She said one of their friends was found dead with the ticket in her procession and so it was given to her and that is how she came to see the last play in the old theatre before it was demolished for the rebuild. They all talked of missing her now as she had been part of their group of friends. They kept saying we are old now and have no stories.  

I was struck by this story especially with some one dying and passing on her ticket to another person so that they could see the last play on a theatre stage before the stage was buried so to speak. It seemed strangely poetic. Like a metaphor had jumped right into my lap.  

As soon as I heard this the poem began to percolate in my head. I had decided to write the other poems first as I knew that I would find the first two poems difficult to write. However here I was in heaven I was in my safe backyard. My speciality as a poet is writing first person narratives, persona poems and elevating the individual voice in a way  that stays true to the character's voice and narrative.

I began by building an outline for the poem. At the beginning of my journey as a poet I had discovered a book called 'The Art and Craft of Poetry' by Michael Bugeja and it became my bible for a number of years. There was a chapter about writing the Narrative poem and I used to use it so religiously that some of the techniques are ingrained in my writing practise. I began to use this to slowly construct my poem.

I began with the usual essay where I explore some of my thoughts and ideas.  I began to explore the skeleton of the poem a technique adopted from my Bugeja days. Here I would map out possibilities for the poems development.

Then I began to think about the gaps in my knowledge. I began to make notes of areas I wanted to research like: the routes / road between Coventry and Stratford-upon-Avon, the imagery that they would have encountered along that drive, the type of cars that they would have driven in and lastly the type of clothes that they would have worn as teenagers in the sixties.  

I was reading an article about birds at that time and remembered that in Britain the term old bird is used to describe older women and I wanted to play with this image so I began to research different types of birds. I came across the parrots and magpies. I liked the magpies because they  are brightly coloured birds, chatterers, and very jolly. I also like the parrots as they also chatter but are seen as repeating things and perceived as empty headed. I wanted to play with these two birds as images in the poems.

I began to make a list of some bits of conversations from the women as well as from other members of the public that I wanted to include in the poem. Quite a few members of the audience had told me about camping by the River Avon in summer after seeing a show and I decided that this would be great for this poem. People also told me about the long queues for tickets and the camaraderie that developed, how people would come with flasks of tea and sandwiches and I wanted this in the poem as well.  

I began to listen to the taped recording over and over  again so that I could get a sense of the voice and tone of the speaker for the character that I was creating. Then I named my characters for the purposes of the poem. This is important to me even if the names are not going to be used in the poem because it would allow me to make the poem my own creation and meant that I could then embellish as and when the poem required, and not have to stay completely true to the speaker's text.
I named them Dolly, Shelia, Sue and Pat.

Then I mapped the poem out into scenes:
1.      Dolly's death
2.      Hitchhiking
3.      Lining up /Long queues
4.      Standing at the back through out the show
5.      Sharing seats
6.      Sleeping by the river
7.      Sneaking into pubs
8.      Death

Dolly's words
Three women sit around a table
Teacups clatter as they talk of the old days
Tell how at night in their beds they think of Dolly

We let our friendship slip sometimes
What with the kids, bills and work,
But that day it cracked like a delicate egg
And something was no more. How fragile life,
How treacherous our winters. Our friendship
Was a long road, till she drove over that cliff.
We go way back to when we were fresh-faced girls

And it's always been us four
We are the oldies now, a bunch of older magpies
Chattering and yapping over chinking teacups
Our bones are brittle now. Our bodies let us down
Now we know that we might be taking our last steps
In this beautiful hall.

The above is the poet writing the sentimental stuff, the emotional background and getting it out of the way. It is always essential for me to do this in the writing process. Now I am ready to work on the poem.  
By the time we get to the semi – final draft the poem is more detailed and most of the above scribbles have been lost.

Here is the final draft.

Sue speaks to me in the Swan Room

Now we're old Parrots, who have lost their flair,
we've no stories to tell. Back then we were red
breasted robins; bright Dolly, chirpy Chrissie,
flighty Stella and me. No boys on our horizons then.
We were children thinking ourselves grown up, in love
with Shakespeare, this stage, the actors, the dust.
Back then we were Blue Tits, bright turtle-necks,
A-line mini skirts and knee length boots.
Back then we stood by roadsides, fists mid air,
thumbs cocked up hitching rides. Back then
we hoarded pocket money for tickets, too poor
to take the bus. We'd ride from Coventry
in Ford Austins, Morris Minors or Cortinas.
Back then it was safe. At the Theatre we queued
for hours, flask of tea warming our palms,
bare knees cold, for one & six pence tickets,
then stood at the back for a three hour play.
If our money stretched to two seats we sat
on each other's knees the entire time.
After we'd camp in a tent by the river,
cold little nesting birds, squeezed. Back then
I loved Olivier. His voice, slicked back hair.
Oh he was tall, could charm the pants off me
any day. No man ever measured up to that one,
not even my husband. All these years
we've migrated to return each new season,
until Dolly flew away. It was sudden flight.
That cup of tea and empty chair is Dolly's.
We're old Parrots now with no stories to tell.

by Malika Booker  |  2 comments

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