WEBVTT
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You're listening to Life Jacket, your literary
00:00:08.119 --> 00:00:12.460
buoyancy aid from Artful Scribe. I am your host,
00:00:12.740 --> 00:00:20.620
Antosz Wojcik. Episode 3 Where was I? Where are
00:00:20.620 --> 00:00:23.960
we? We drift along Time's river, noticing time's
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many things, accumulating detritus and joyful
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wrecks in the pockets of our life jackets. We
00:00:29.929 --> 00:00:33.250
pluck objects, jot notes and take pictures to
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maybe return to beyond the point of remembering
00:00:35.450 --> 00:00:39.130
their context or relevance. I've accumulated
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so much to sift and sort. The softness of it
00:00:43.750 --> 00:00:47.570
all makes it all the more strange. In a digital
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cloud, my days are stored with their simple marks
00:00:50.729 --> 00:00:53.649
and schedules. Are there digital equivalents
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of clouds, of stratus nimbus cumulus? Where was
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I? In this accumulation of things and attempts
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to categorize and embrace the chaotic meandering,
00:01:05.480 --> 00:01:08.859
I remain buoyant. I hope you do too, wherever
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you are. Where was I is a profound question from
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one of today's texts, a piece of vibrant, fizzy,
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interrogative memoir from writer Angelo Chicken.
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The question made me stop and think on how much
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I write in order to locate myself. and how often
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this locating just raises more questions and
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reflections on where I am and more so how or
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why did I get here. The writer is often navigating
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this existential jog with their text. It's our
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cathartic reflection on the world around us in
00:01:43.859 --> 00:01:47.400
order to hone in on where we stand, both in landscape
00:01:47.400 --> 00:01:50.739
and, to borrow Gerald Manley Hopkins' term, the
00:01:50.739 --> 00:01:53.879
in -scape. When we write in response to the world,
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We are crafting an outward reflection in order
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to access the inner nature of things, the thing
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often being ourself. Writing into the inner nature
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of things today are Angela Chicken and Isa Farah,
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two writers whose prose and poetry will bring
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to our ears the idiosyncrasy, rhythm and pulse
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of place. We will hear the writers locate themselves
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and in turn we will find where we are. At East
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Park, a massive pink frilly peony squeezes its
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head through black railings. The scent is overwhelming.
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Its neighbour, behind in the race, gives a chance
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to compare the before and after of them. Baby
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magpie runs along, beak -wide, whinging about
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food. The bigger bird goes about its business,
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ignoring the fuss like a parent absent -mindedly
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studying the contents of a freezer in Iceland,
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impervious or hoping the problem will go away.
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I'm after a shady spot at Metrix where I can
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read, but there's too much content in the park.
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Tiny yokey claws of bird's foot trifoil, clover
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in both hues, buttercups and plantains have me
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shrinking like Alice, down to ground level for
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the grasses too. The bees here are plentiful
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and happy. I almost get one up my sleeve in my
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keenness for the photo. Childhood memories have
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a funny habit of repeating themselves. Scent
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of rambling roses in the hedge along the road,
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green leaf mosaic overhead in the avenue of horse
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chestnuts heading for the cenotaph, dappled shade
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on the tarmac, liquid gold blinding peekaboo
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through branches and round trunks. Each park
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dreams of paradise. God bless the men who plant
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trees in whose shade they will never sit. Isn't
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that what they say? I think of this with the
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NHS, libraries, council housing, education, the
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arts, and also well, with the trees themselves.
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All that vision, planning, all the work and knowledge,
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and all for me, and for you too. No entry fee,
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free to share with everyone, yet vital to each
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should we need it. What will we plant that we
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will never see? A man on a bench playing music
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on a bamboo flute, taking me away to India or
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Pakistan maybe. I have to stop. Peace lilies
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blinding by the fountain, cyclist doubles back
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to thank the flautist, shares a few words and
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smiles, pushing off for Charlotte Place. Where
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was I? Lost in time. I could be my granddad sitting
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here watching the day studying a bird's nest
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perfect and fallen from the tree empty solitary
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wood pigeon indecisive nearby the current is
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strong these days I could get lost in these waters
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there's too much content in the park Chicken's
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text reads as though stumbling along, catalyzed
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by East Park in Southampton, a bustling place,
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alive and diverse with its inhabitants, human
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and non -human. The piece quickly evolves into
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a discursive, curious, provocational piece of
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prose which exacts the drifting, fizzy thoughts
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of someone, recognising both the beauty and the
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tensions of their surroundings. The senses are
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alive. The speaker is urgent. Time is itching
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away. The prose style leaps and bounds across
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matters, the stream of consciousness precisely
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flitting to the next thing as Chicken describes,
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each part dreams of paradise. In paradise, we'd
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hope there would be the same keenness, curiosity
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and magic that sparks in this prose. Too much
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content in the park can be an invitation to wrestle
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with what overwhelms us, as well as invite us
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to stay buoyant in the cumulative beauty of difference
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found in urban pastorals. And in the urban pastoral,
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Chicken even raises the plight of the worker,
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asking questions of social organisation and inviting
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the listener to make good of the free. public
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spaces while we can, with a knowing tension of
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how the increased need to work takes us away
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from leisure and pleasure. God bless the man
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who plants the tree but never sits in its shade.
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The speaker turns their stream of thoughts towards
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those who care and those who rarely or never
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get the time to embrace their leisure and pleasure.
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Both leisure and pleasure, we know, is rapidly
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being privatized, in the words of Catherine Liu.
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and in need of redistribution. With the simple
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mechanism of the speaker's need to find a shady
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place to read, Chicken takes us to wider contextual
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questions, for you, for me, as we sit in a place
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like a park that is the centre across time. Why
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would we want to be anywhere else? And where
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would we go if this place no longer existed?
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I know this fairy park. I did not plant its trees,
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but like Angela Chicken, I am grateful someone
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planted them. I hope the park sees more suns.
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Horns stretches to snuff, belt of fieldstuff
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of night. Red mellows yield to infinite white.
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Chiseled face belying, vying within, skin marked
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on. Watch his swan visage of dock town from.
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Passed before free -fall vanished to elsewhere
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a new watch from hooded salt -south stair Decked
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in Asiatic dye, woe in caustic balm of docktown
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still Watches beatific beam pry yesterday's pinion
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of ill Lotus chalice, drained of pristine sorrow,
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stems blood from chemical stave of worlds of
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promise of tomorrow. 6 AM strikes again from
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clock tower, pylon trail followed by wanderer
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again in dock town. Dock town. causing dust of
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mercy in scope of fine face square to zenith,
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mask of wild glee guile broken in banish, hourglass
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inked in frantic hand before melanin drum clarion
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dance quickens wanderer to stand, in hours past
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shock of dove in snare of halogen, elsewhere
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geveled dent of maddened whim, docked town tongues,
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anger in ether, rush of 12 p .m. passes suffering
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softened features, Pyre of tree billows black
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in square Staircracked salt salve of sapling
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flare Idle of east burnished in yearn of despair
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Hangs from string knotted before elsewhere Dial
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on peak of crucifix still in vermilion Doctown
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moment of wonder in meridian Doctown by Isa Farah
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Farah describes the poem as the imagined process
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of someone grappling with addiction. It's clear
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the imaginary for Farah is the window to the
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inner nature of the psyche and by extension the
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world around them. Similar to the prose of Angela
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Chicken's Archaeology of the Soul, Farah's Doctown
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renders an urban space into psycho -geographic
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poetry. The absence of pronouns sets each and
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every object into action as instigator and as
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event. If there was a poet as the channel to
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a place, it is Issa Farah. His verse reeled off
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as incantation, conjuring rainbow sway finesse
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and swan visages. Surreal and dreamy, the craft
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of this playful verse uses the internal rhymes
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and freer music of the line to push the concrete
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and abstract. The sounds of the words and the
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jazzy free -form meters are our narrator. It's
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the epitome of Ezra Pound's doctrine in a retrospect
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to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase
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and Wanda Coleman's zoning where the almost automatic
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dreamy verses rich in surprise and ethereal visions
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fished from the subconscious. Take the phrase
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dove and snare of halogen, the flight and peace
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of the dove, the entrapment and snap of the snare.
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Two concrete details reveal the inner nature
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of the halogen glare and brings us closer to
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the experience of the speaker, and to return
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to Hopkins' idea, the in -scape of someone grappling
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with addiction. It's here that Farrah's poem
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Doctown is exemplary in both its playful, incantatory
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verse and its mastery of image. The poem invites
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all poets to do away with the pronoun in their
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verse and see what story they can tell purely
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with sound. and objects in sound. Where was I?
00:11:16.759 --> 00:11:19.240
Two pieces that surely relocate the listener.
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I've enjoyed the deep dive and immersive place
00:11:22.899 --> 00:11:26.639
pieces. I hope you have too. Julie Chicken is
00:11:26.639 --> 00:11:29.720
a poet and writer based in Southampton. and has
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performed in London and across the South East.
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Her work often features themes of community in
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urban settings, but she is equally at home in
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nature, especially if there's National Trust
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tea and cake involved. She has worked on projects
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teaching poetry and performance in schools, and
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her work is featured on Hampshire County Council's
00:11:48.480 --> 00:11:51.340
Writing Hampshire website, Mapping the County
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in Poetry. Angela Chicken's piece, Archaeology
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of Soul, can be read in Modern Nature Anthology,
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responses to Derek Jarman's Modern Nature, edited
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by Joanna Bernard. Produced in partnership with
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John Hansard Gallery, Arts Council England and
00:12:09.759 --> 00:12:13.299
Artful Scribe. Copies of the anthology are available
00:12:13.299 --> 00:12:17.559
to purchase on Artful Scribe's website. Heesa
00:12:17.559 --> 00:12:20.519
Loyan Farah Kelly is a poet from Southampton,
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best known for Let's Make It So. His contribution
00:12:23.409 --> 00:12:26.710
to the Southampton City of Culture 2025 campaign
00:12:26.710 --> 00:12:29.610
and for founding writer -note poetry open mic,
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Issa performs with rhythm and the intention of
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synthesizing rhyme and reason. He states Doctown
00:12:35.830 --> 00:12:39.649
was written in 2021 and was inspired by an ex
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-friend's journey from ketamine addiction to
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sobriety. Issa hosts the Clifford Street Corner
00:12:46.429 --> 00:12:50.389
on Voice FM, a monthly show dedicated to poetry,
00:12:50.570 --> 00:12:53.419
lyrics and literature. Life Jackets is produced
00:12:53.419 --> 00:12:56.460
by Artful Scribe, a not -for -profit writer development
00:12:56.460 --> 00:12:59.740
agency based in Southampton, supporting emerging
00:12:59.740 --> 00:13:02.559
and continuing writers in Hampshire, Dorset and
00:13:02.559 --> 00:13:05.460
the Solent region. Artful Scribe is supported
00:13:05.460 --> 00:13:08.860
by Arts Council England. I'm your host, Antosh
00:13:08.860 --> 00:13:12.639
Vujicic. This is Life Jacket. Stay buoyant.
00:00:04.360 --> 00:00:08.119
You're listening to Life Jacket, your literary
00:00:08.119 --> 00:00:12.460
buoyancy aid from Artful Scribe. I am your host,
00:00:12.740 --> 00:00:20.620
Antosz Wojcik. Episode 3 Where was I? Where are
00:00:20.620 --> 00:00:23.960
we? We drift along Time's river, noticing time's
00:00:23.960 --> 00:00:26.859
many things, accumulating detritus and joyful
00:00:26.859 --> 00:00:29.929
wrecks in the pockets of our life jackets. We
00:00:29.929 --> 00:00:33.250
pluck objects, jot notes and take pictures to
00:00:33.250 --> 00:00:35.450
maybe return to beyond the point of remembering
00:00:35.450 --> 00:00:39.130
their context or relevance. I've accumulated
00:00:39.130 --> 00:00:43.750
so much to sift and sort. The softness of it
00:00:43.750 --> 00:00:47.570
all makes it all the more strange. In a digital
00:00:47.570 --> 00:00:50.729
cloud, my days are stored with their simple marks
00:00:50.729 --> 00:00:53.649
and schedules. Are there digital equivalents
00:00:53.649 --> 00:00:58.590
of clouds, of stratus nimbus cumulus? Where was
00:00:58.590 --> 00:01:02.399
I? In this accumulation of things and attempts
00:01:02.399 --> 00:01:05.140
to categorize and embrace the chaotic meandering,
00:01:05.480 --> 00:01:08.859
I remain buoyant. I hope you do too, wherever
00:01:08.859 --> 00:01:14.400
you are. Where was I is a profound question from
00:01:14.400 --> 00:01:17.599
one of today's texts, a piece of vibrant, fizzy,
00:01:17.719 --> 00:01:20.280
interrogative memoir from writer Angelo Chicken.
00:01:21.579 --> 00:01:23.719
The question made me stop and think on how much
00:01:23.719 --> 00:01:26.920
I write in order to locate myself. and how often
00:01:26.920 --> 00:01:29.680
this locating just raises more questions and
00:01:29.680 --> 00:01:33.599
reflections on where I am and more so how or
00:01:33.599 --> 00:01:37.939
why did I get here. The writer is often navigating
00:01:37.939 --> 00:01:41.159
this existential jog with their text. It's our
00:01:41.159 --> 00:01:43.859
cathartic reflection on the world around us in
00:01:43.859 --> 00:01:47.400
order to hone in on where we stand, both in landscape
00:01:47.400 --> 00:01:50.739
and, to borrow Gerald Manley Hopkins' term, the
00:01:50.739 --> 00:01:53.879
in -scape. When we write in response to the world,
00:01:54.040 --> 00:01:57.099
We are crafting an outward reflection in order
00:01:57.099 --> 00:02:00.719
to access the inner nature of things, the thing
00:02:00.719 --> 00:02:06.260
often being ourself. Writing into the inner nature
00:02:06.260 --> 00:02:09.639
of things today are Angela Chicken and Isa Farah,
00:02:10.139 --> 00:02:12.259
two writers whose prose and poetry will bring
00:02:12.259 --> 00:02:14.900
to our ears the idiosyncrasy, rhythm and pulse
00:02:14.900 --> 00:02:17.800
of place. We will hear the writers locate themselves
00:02:17.800 --> 00:02:28.560
and in turn we will find where we are. At East
00:02:28.560 --> 00:02:32.000
Park, a massive pink frilly peony squeezes its
00:02:32.000 --> 00:02:35.159
head through black railings. The scent is overwhelming.
00:02:35.879 --> 00:02:38.740
Its neighbour, behind in the race, gives a chance
00:02:38.740 --> 00:02:41.939
to compare the before and after of them. Baby
00:02:41.939 --> 00:02:44.819
magpie runs along, beak -wide, whinging about
00:02:44.819 --> 00:02:47.719
food. The bigger bird goes about its business,
00:02:47.960 --> 00:02:50.319
ignoring the fuss like a parent absent -mindedly
00:02:50.319 --> 00:02:52.560
studying the contents of a freezer in Iceland,
00:02:53.240 --> 00:02:55.259
impervious or hoping the problem will go away.
00:02:56.079 --> 00:02:58.780
I'm after a shady spot at Metrix where I can
00:02:58.780 --> 00:03:01.280
read, but there's too much content in the park.
00:03:01.800 --> 00:03:05.219
Tiny yokey claws of bird's foot trifoil, clover
00:03:05.219 --> 00:03:08.159
in both hues, buttercups and plantains have me
00:03:08.159 --> 00:03:10.800
shrinking like Alice, down to ground level for
00:03:10.800 --> 00:03:14.259
the grasses too. The bees here are plentiful
00:03:14.259 --> 00:03:17.000
and happy. I almost get one up my sleeve in my
00:03:17.000 --> 00:03:20.120
keenness for the photo. Childhood memories have
00:03:20.120 --> 00:03:23.020
a funny habit of repeating themselves. Scent
00:03:23.020 --> 00:03:25.280
of rambling roses in the hedge along the road,
00:03:25.840 --> 00:03:28.539
green leaf mosaic overhead in the avenue of horse
00:03:28.539 --> 00:03:31.620
chestnuts heading for the cenotaph, dappled shade
00:03:31.620 --> 00:03:34.979
on the tarmac, liquid gold blinding peekaboo
00:03:34.979 --> 00:03:38.120
through branches and round trunks. Each park
00:03:38.120 --> 00:03:41.770
dreams of paradise. God bless the men who plant
00:03:41.770 --> 00:03:44.090
trees in whose shade they will never sit. Isn't
00:03:44.090 --> 00:03:46.530
that what they say? I think of this with the
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NHS, libraries, council housing, education, the
00:03:50.150 --> 00:03:52.669
arts, and also well, with the trees themselves.
00:03:53.270 --> 00:03:56.150
All that vision, planning, all the work and knowledge,
00:03:56.449 --> 00:03:59.930
and all for me, and for you too. No entry fee,
00:04:00.069 --> 00:04:02.750
free to share with everyone, yet vital to each
00:04:02.750 --> 00:04:05.430
should we need it. What will we plant that we
00:04:05.430 --> 00:04:08.919
will never see? A man on a bench playing music
00:04:08.919 --> 00:04:11.419
on a bamboo flute, taking me away to India or
00:04:11.419 --> 00:04:15.080
Pakistan maybe. I have to stop. Peace lilies
00:04:15.080 --> 00:04:17.680
blinding by the fountain, cyclist doubles back
00:04:17.680 --> 00:04:20.459
to thank the flautist, shares a few words and
00:04:20.459 --> 00:04:23.860
smiles, pushing off for Charlotte Place. Where
00:04:23.860 --> 00:04:28.060
was I? Lost in time. I could be my granddad sitting
00:04:28.060 --> 00:04:30.879
here watching the day studying a bird's nest
00:04:30.879 --> 00:04:33.980
perfect and fallen from the tree empty solitary
00:04:33.980 --> 00:04:37.220
wood pigeon indecisive nearby the current is
00:04:37.220 --> 00:04:41.639
strong these days I could get lost in these waters
00:04:41.639 --> 00:04:48.480
there's too much content in the park Chicken's
00:04:48.480 --> 00:04:51.779
text reads as though stumbling along, catalyzed
00:04:51.779 --> 00:04:55.420
by East Park in Southampton, a bustling place,
00:04:55.660 --> 00:04:58.560
alive and diverse with its inhabitants, human
00:04:58.560 --> 00:05:01.620
and non -human. The piece quickly evolves into
00:05:01.620 --> 00:05:04.759
a discursive, curious, provocational piece of
00:05:04.759 --> 00:05:07.620
prose which exacts the drifting, fizzy thoughts
00:05:07.620 --> 00:05:10.920
of someone, recognising both the beauty and the
00:05:10.920 --> 00:05:14.339
tensions of their surroundings. The senses are
00:05:14.339 --> 00:05:18.319
alive. The speaker is urgent. Time is itching
00:05:18.319 --> 00:05:21.420
away. The prose style leaps and bounds across
00:05:21.420 --> 00:05:24.360
matters, the stream of consciousness precisely
00:05:24.360 --> 00:05:27.420
flitting to the next thing as Chicken describes,
00:05:27.800 --> 00:05:32.279
each part dreams of paradise. In paradise, we'd
00:05:32.279 --> 00:05:35.000
hope there would be the same keenness, curiosity
00:05:35.000 --> 00:05:39.720
and magic that sparks in this prose. Too much
00:05:39.720 --> 00:05:42.540
content in the park can be an invitation to wrestle
00:05:42.540 --> 00:05:45.620
with what overwhelms us, as well as invite us
00:05:45.620 --> 00:05:49.319
to stay buoyant in the cumulative beauty of difference
00:05:49.319 --> 00:05:54.699
found in urban pastorals. And in the urban pastoral,
00:05:55.019 --> 00:05:57.100
Chicken even raises the plight of the worker,
00:05:57.660 --> 00:06:00.819
asking questions of social organisation and inviting
00:06:00.819 --> 00:06:03.949
the listener to make good of the free. public
00:06:03.949 --> 00:06:07.209
spaces while we can, with a knowing tension of
00:06:07.209 --> 00:06:09.850
how the increased need to work takes us away
00:06:09.850 --> 00:06:12.670
from leisure and pleasure. God bless the man
00:06:12.670 --> 00:06:15.389
who plants the tree but never sits in its shade.
00:06:16.029 --> 00:06:18.670
The speaker turns their stream of thoughts towards
00:06:18.670 --> 00:06:21.149
those who care and those who rarely or never
00:06:21.149 --> 00:06:24.329
get the time to embrace their leisure and pleasure.
00:06:25.250 --> 00:06:27.990
Both leisure and pleasure, we know, is rapidly
00:06:27.990 --> 00:06:30.990
being privatized, in the words of Catherine Liu.
00:06:31.319 --> 00:06:34.120
and in need of redistribution. With the simple
00:06:34.120 --> 00:06:36.560
mechanism of the speaker's need to find a shady
00:06:36.560 --> 00:06:39.740
place to read, Chicken takes us to wider contextual
00:06:39.740 --> 00:06:43.139
questions, for you, for me, as we sit in a place
00:06:43.139 --> 00:06:46.660
like a park that is the centre across time. Why
00:06:46.660 --> 00:06:49.060
would we want to be anywhere else? And where
00:06:49.060 --> 00:06:51.740
would we go if this place no longer existed?
00:06:53.139 --> 00:06:56.720
I know this fairy park. I did not plant its trees,
00:06:56.939 --> 00:06:59.959
but like Angela Chicken, I am grateful someone
00:06:59.959 --> 00:07:05.870
planted them. I hope the park sees more suns.
00:07:26.490 --> 00:07:29.310
Horns stretches to snuff, belt of fieldstuff
00:07:29.310 --> 00:07:32.769
of night. Red mellows yield to infinite white.
00:07:33.470 --> 00:07:36.389
Chiseled face belying, vying within, skin marked
00:07:36.389 --> 00:07:39.870
on. Watch his swan visage of dock town from.
00:07:40.410 --> 00:07:43.610
Passed before free -fall vanished to elsewhere
00:07:43.610 --> 00:07:47.930
a new watch from hooded salt -south stair Decked
00:07:47.930 --> 00:07:52.290
in Asiatic dye, woe in caustic balm of docktown
00:07:52.290 --> 00:07:56.430
still Watches beatific beam pry yesterday's pinion
00:07:56.430 --> 00:08:00.990
of ill Lotus chalice, drained of pristine sorrow,
00:08:01.529 --> 00:08:04.110
stems blood from chemical stave of worlds of
00:08:04.110 --> 00:08:07.810
promise of tomorrow. 6 AM strikes again from
00:08:07.810 --> 00:08:11.310
clock tower, pylon trail followed by wanderer
00:08:11.310 --> 00:08:16.449
again in dock town. Dock town. causing dust of
00:08:16.449 --> 00:08:19.529
mercy in scope of fine face square to zenith,
00:08:19.709 --> 00:08:23.870
mask of wild glee guile broken in banish, hourglass
00:08:23.870 --> 00:08:27.649
inked in frantic hand before melanin drum clarion
00:08:27.649 --> 00:08:31.129
dance quickens wanderer to stand, in hours past
00:08:31.129 --> 00:08:34.350
shock of dove in snare of halogen, elsewhere
00:08:34.350 --> 00:08:38.029
geveled dent of maddened whim, docked town tongues,
00:08:38.269 --> 00:08:43.070
anger in ether, rush of 12 p .m. passes suffering
00:08:43.070 --> 00:08:46.419
softened features, Pyre of tree billows black
00:08:46.419 --> 00:08:49.639
in square Staircracked salt salve of sapling
00:08:49.639 --> 00:08:53.379
flare Idle of east burnished in yearn of despair
00:08:53.379 --> 00:08:57.120
Hangs from string knotted before elsewhere Dial
00:08:57.120 --> 00:09:00.919
on peak of crucifix still in vermilion Doctown
00:09:00.919 --> 00:09:11.000
moment of wonder in meridian Doctown by Isa Farah
00:09:11.000 --> 00:09:14.830
Farah describes the poem as the imagined process
00:09:14.830 --> 00:09:18.450
of someone grappling with addiction. It's clear
00:09:18.450 --> 00:09:20.889
the imaginary for Farah is the window to the
00:09:20.889 --> 00:09:23.149
inner nature of the psyche and by extension the
00:09:23.149 --> 00:09:26.250
world around them. Similar to the prose of Angela
00:09:26.250 --> 00:09:29.450
Chicken's Archaeology of the Soul, Farah's Doctown
00:09:29.450 --> 00:09:32.850
renders an urban space into psycho -geographic
00:09:32.850 --> 00:09:35.990
poetry. The absence of pronouns sets each and
00:09:35.990 --> 00:09:39.429
every object into action as instigator and as
00:09:39.429 --> 00:09:43.000
event. If there was a poet as the channel to
00:09:43.000 --> 00:09:46.960
a place, it is Issa Farah. His verse reeled off
00:09:46.960 --> 00:09:50.059
as incantation, conjuring rainbow sway finesse
00:09:50.059 --> 00:09:53.779
and swan visages. Surreal and dreamy, the craft
00:09:53.779 --> 00:09:56.059
of this playful verse uses the internal rhymes
00:09:56.059 --> 00:09:59.080
and freer music of the line to push the concrete
00:09:59.080 --> 00:10:02.940
and abstract. The sounds of the words and the
00:10:02.940 --> 00:10:06.779
jazzy free -form meters are our narrator. It's
00:10:06.779 --> 00:10:10.179
the epitome of Ezra Pound's doctrine in a retrospect
00:10:10.179 --> 00:10:13.080
to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase
00:10:13.080 --> 00:10:17.279
and Wanda Coleman's zoning where the almost automatic
00:10:17.279 --> 00:10:20.340
dreamy verses rich in surprise and ethereal visions
00:10:20.340 --> 00:10:23.740
fished from the subconscious. Take the phrase
00:10:23.740 --> 00:10:27.500
dove and snare of halogen, the flight and peace
00:10:27.500 --> 00:10:30.919
of the dove, the entrapment and snap of the snare.
00:10:31.210 --> 00:10:34.149
Two concrete details reveal the inner nature
00:10:34.149 --> 00:10:36.730
of the halogen glare and brings us closer to
00:10:36.730 --> 00:10:39.409
the experience of the speaker, and to return
00:10:39.409 --> 00:10:43.110
to Hopkins' idea, the in -scape of someone grappling
00:10:43.110 --> 00:10:45.649
with addiction. It's here that Farrah's poem
00:10:45.649 --> 00:10:49.450
Doctown is exemplary in both its playful, incantatory
00:10:49.450 --> 00:10:53.110
verse and its mastery of image. The poem invites
00:10:53.110 --> 00:10:56.169
all poets to do away with the pronoun in their
00:10:56.169 --> 00:10:58.669
verse and see what story they can tell purely
00:10:58.669 --> 00:11:16.200
with sound. and objects in sound. Where was I?
00:11:16.759 --> 00:11:19.240
Two pieces that surely relocate the listener.
00:11:20.059 --> 00:11:22.899
I've enjoyed the deep dive and immersive place
00:11:22.899 --> 00:11:26.639
pieces. I hope you have too. Julie Chicken is
00:11:26.639 --> 00:11:29.720
a poet and writer based in Southampton. and has
00:11:29.720 --> 00:11:32.200
performed in London and across the South East.
00:11:32.860 --> 00:11:35.379
Her work often features themes of community in
00:11:35.379 --> 00:11:38.299
urban settings, but she is equally at home in
00:11:38.299 --> 00:11:40.799
nature, especially if there's National Trust
00:11:40.799 --> 00:11:43.600
tea and cake involved. She has worked on projects
00:11:43.600 --> 00:11:45.720
teaching poetry and performance in schools, and
00:11:45.720 --> 00:11:48.480
her work is featured on Hampshire County Council's
00:11:48.480 --> 00:11:51.340
Writing Hampshire website, Mapping the County
00:11:51.340 --> 00:11:56.759
in Poetry. Angela Chicken's piece, Archaeology
00:11:56.759 --> 00:12:00.019
of Soul, can be read in Modern Nature Anthology,
00:12:00.299 --> 00:12:03.519
responses to Derek Jarman's Modern Nature, edited
00:12:03.519 --> 00:12:06.600
by Joanna Bernard. Produced in partnership with
00:12:06.600 --> 00:12:09.759
John Hansard Gallery, Arts Council England and
00:12:09.759 --> 00:12:13.299
Artful Scribe. Copies of the anthology are available
00:12:13.299 --> 00:12:17.559
to purchase on Artful Scribe's website. Heesa
00:12:17.559 --> 00:12:20.519
Loyan Farah Kelly is a poet from Southampton,
00:12:20.820 --> 00:12:23.409
best known for Let's Make It So. His contribution
00:12:23.409 --> 00:12:26.710
to the Southampton City of Culture 2025 campaign
00:12:26.710 --> 00:12:29.610
and for founding writer -note poetry open mic,
00:12:29.929 --> 00:12:32.450
Issa performs with rhythm and the intention of
00:12:32.450 --> 00:12:35.830
synthesizing rhyme and reason. He states Doctown
00:12:35.830 --> 00:12:39.649
was written in 2021 and was inspired by an ex
00:12:39.649 --> 00:12:42.190
-friend's journey from ketamine addiction to
00:12:42.190 --> 00:12:46.429
sobriety. Issa hosts the Clifford Street Corner
00:12:46.429 --> 00:12:50.389
on Voice FM, a monthly show dedicated to poetry,
00:12:50.570 --> 00:12:53.419
lyrics and literature. Life Jackets is produced
00:12:53.419 --> 00:12:56.460
by Artful Scribe, a not -for -profit writer development
00:12:56.460 --> 00:12:59.740
agency based in Southampton, supporting emerging
00:12:59.740 --> 00:13:02.559
and continuing writers in Hampshire, Dorset and
00:13:02.559 --> 00:13:05.460
the Solent region. Artful Scribe is supported
00:13:05.460 --> 00:13:08.860
by Arts Council England. I'm your host, Antosh
00:13:08.860 --> 00:13:12.639
Vujicic. This is Life Jacket. Stay buoyant.
