Wondermentalist

On page nine of the July 23rd Totnes Times, the following review appeared, penned by Louise Bennett…

Turning the world back on to poetry

MATT Harvey’s Wondermentalist Cabaret became the shining jewel in the Ways With Words festival, packing the Dartington Great Hall with a 400-strong crowd of local enthusiasts and nationally-recognised literary stars.

They were all happy to participate and wonder at the snowballing success of the Totnes-born cabaret movement which is determined to turn the world back on to poetry.

Matt said: ‘People love poetry. They just need to remember why, and that is what Wondermentalist is here to do. Bringing the cabaret to Dartington and the festival was the perfect way to celebrate our love of ideas, while getting some quite big stars to take part in the Dead Poets’ Slam encouraged more people to buy tickets.’

BBC2 Earth Pilgrim Satish Kumar, along with other notable literary figures including author James Long, storyteller Clive Fairweather, and Daily Telegraph literary editor Sam Leith, took part in the Dead Poets’ Slam – each pitting dead poet against dead poet in a head-to-head of sheer literary delight.

Christopher North’s poem The Ruin won the vote of the audience, which later helped to compile a poem called Windmills – What Are You Like?

Matt provided a turn of comedic and poetic genius while Mim Darlington and Beryl the Feral added sparkle to the event.

House band Nomad Shuffle and local musician-cum-poet John Elliott added musical magic, while comedian and singer/songwriter Jerri Hart delighted and disturbed with two sets of slapstick brilliance.

The Wondermentalist Cabaret will be returning to Ways With Words next year. It can be caught before that at the Westcountry Storytelling Festival in Totnes on September 5, and at the Plymouth Treasury on October 3 – with a visit to the Royal Seven Stars Hotel in Totnes the following day.

Louise Bennett

Any similarity between Louise Bennett and our own wondermental Liv Torc is entirely coincidental…

 

The other day I was lucky enough to do a gig with folk circuit legend Les Barker and wondermental star turn Jude Simpson. We were all up in Carlisle at the Brampton Live folk festival. It was a treat to meet Les and share a stage with him and Jude, and one  in particular of Les’s poems struck me as having fundamentally wondermentalist properties. I asked if he’d mind me putting a copy up here on the site and when I got home there it was in my inbox, all neat and rhyming and funny.

 

THE CHURCH OF THE WHOLLY UNDECIDED

 

Brothers and sisters;

I speak to you today in the Church of the Wholly Undecided;

I wanna hear you say “Yeah!”

I wanna hear you say “No!”

 

We are gathered here together,

Sister side by side with brother,

To proclaim we are Agnostic;

Don’t know one way or the other.

In this, we won’t be shaken,

Though hard the winds may blow;

In doubt we are united

And we cry: We do not know!”

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “Errrrrrrrrrrrr!”

I wanna hear you say “There are two sides to this, you know!”

 

We hold no fear of persecution,

It pains us not to be derided

As we stand here in the Church

Of The Wholly Undecided.

Oh my brothers and my sisters,

I know I speak for you

When I say we know for certain

That we haven’t got a clue.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “It’s beyond my comprehension!”

I wanna hear you say “It’s a bugger, innit?”

 

I believe that some believe

That only their beliefs are true;

Do I believe what they believe?

I don’t believe I do.

O my friends, be ye contented,

For ignorance is bliss;

We stand foursquare behind our message

And we don’t know what it is.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “I am not a sheep!”

I wanna hear you say “I will not mindlessly do everything I am told!”

 

We know that we don’t know,

So let our vision still be pure;

We are Agnostic Fundamentalists;

We’re fundamentally unsure.

Peace, my sisters and my brothers;

The Agnostic does not smite;

We are tolerant of others;

There’s a chance they may be right.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “Death to nobody whatsoever!”

I wanna hear you say “The infidel might have a good point, you know!”

I want you all to clap now.

 

I’m hopeful we’ll be getting Les along to a Wondermentalist Cabaret in 2009. Watch this space. Apart from anything it’s just a great bit of space. 

I’m gratified not only that this wonderful 8th Cebtury Anglo Saxon poem won the Dead Poets’ Slam at Ways With Words but that there have been requests from members of the audience for copies. My thanks therefore to poet Christopher North for choosing the poem and reading it so well, and for sending the copy below.  

 

The Ruin

Translated by Michael Alexander

 

This 8^th century poem stands at the portals of poetry in English – It is a fragment – the original manuscript being partly destroyed by fire. The poet is walking through the ruins of Aquae Sulis – now known as Bath. He contemplates the Roman ruins – his people refer to the Romans as ‘the Giants’, ‘weird’ was their word for fate…

 

Well wrought this wall:  Wierds broke it.The stronghold burst . . . Snapped rooftrees, towers fallen,

 

the work of the Giants, the stone-smiths,mouldereth.        Rime scoureth gate-towers        rime on mortar.Shattered the shower-shields, roofs ruined,age under-ate them.

 

And the wielders and wrights?Earth-grip holds them - gone, long gone,fast in graves-grasp while fifty fathersand sons have passed.

 

Wall stood,grey lichen, red stone, kings fell often,stood under storms, high arch crashed -stands yet the wall stone, hacked by weapons,by files grim-ground . . .. . . shown the old skilled work. . . sank to loam-crust.

 

Mood quickened mind, and a man of wit,cunning in rings, bound bravely the wall-basewith iron, a wonder.

 

Bright were the buildings, halls where springs ran,high, horn-gabled, much throng-noise;these many mead-halls men filledwith loud cheerfulness: Wierds changed that.

 

Came days of pestilence, on all sides men fell dead,death fetched off the flower of the people; -  where they stood to fight, waste places -  and on the acropolis, ruins

 

Hosts who would build againshrank to the earth. Therefore are these courts drearyand that red arch twisteth tiles,wryeth from the roof-ridge, reacheth ground-wards . . .Broken blocks . . .

 

There once many a manmood-glad, gold-bright, of gleams garnished,flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,gazed on wrought gem-stones, on gold on silver,on wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amberon this bright burg of broad dominion.

 

Stood stone houses; wide streams welledhot from source, and a wall all caughtin its bright bosom, that the baths werehot at hall’s hearth, that was fitting.

 

Thence hot streams loosed, ran over hoar stone,

into the ring tank….

 

….It is a kingly thing….

… city… 

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post called ’something of nothing’ with a perky squib of a poem about Kylie receiving ‘the Order of the Bubbly Elf’. I’d meant to follow it up with this verse called Something of Nothing that has been my poem-of-choice to read on Saturday Live when very nice (and clever) science and maths writer Simon Singh was guesting. I was gently told that the poem was slightly too tangential to the topics in the programme - although with hindsight I’d beg to differ - so I wrote the Vital Statistics verse which, also with hindsight, is equally north-by-north-west field.

Something of Nothing

There’s something I can almost touch

            (And not to would be such a waste)

I try, perhaps I try too much,

            There’s something I can almost taste

 

There’s someone – but they’re very shy

            And far away inside their shell

And yet, I don’t know how or why

            There’s something I can almost smell

 

There’s something, I am positive,

            Just out of sight but very clear

I’m sure it was (or was it?) if

            We sit quite still it might come near

 

And some time – if we’re very good

            And only step between the cracks

We may stand where that something stood

            And quiver in our anoraks

 

And even if we’re very bad

            And make it worse by getting caught

There’s something almost very sad

            That’s neither feeling, quite, nor thought

  

And though it may not leave a trace

            Or show up on our instruments

We’ll know we’ve almost seen its face

            And felt its subtle influence

 

We’ll know, though it cannot be proved

            That something nearly not quite there

Has touched our minds’ membrane and moved

            Absurdly small amounts of air