Viewpoint 418 Arts Supplement

No Diary for the foreseeable future due to changed circumstances (mine and Viewpoint's)

Reviews and general promotional material will appear here from time to time
most of it additional to the printed edition.
Trevor Gilson

Contents
"Watershot" by Stella Davies Delicious Sounds Sing for the Future: Choirs and workshops The Bursledon Village Band and "Straight From The Fingers"

From "Watershot" by Stella Davis

Wootton Bridge 1969
Thirty-one years? that long ago? It seems no more than four or five; not distant. Thirty-one? a picture forms unfaded: there is Mike hefting a rucksack, flower-shirted velvet waistcoat, flaring jeans, beard wild with curl; and there am I, everything trailing, hair, and beads, and skirts; decked out in rosy sunglasses, blue sandals with purple daisies in between the toes, dragging a patchwork bag, to which Joanna fixed a badge proclaiming HELP BOB DYLAN SINK THE ISLE OF WIGHT. And in procession thousands of us walked from Ryde to Wootton in a gentle sun (that summer no one ever noticed rain); waiting, we made a hundred friends before the music started. A poet read: his careful voice startlingly amplified across the fields. We clapped, and called, and basked; then, later, music, hot-dogs, more waiting, hunts for where the lavatories were said to be, and, in the dusk, anticipation of the main event. I now admit that I, exhausted, fell asleep just around midnight, leaving Bob to sing to all the others, and drifted in a half-made world hearing the fabled voice diffused in dreams.	We slept that night in someone's porch in Ryde, and woke to find a morning not like any other then, or since: pellucid, gold, silky with promise like a wrapped and glittering gift. We did not doubt our luck. Thirty-one years? only that long? It has the essence of another age, when hope was normal, and credulity untroubled by the easy claim that heaven on earth had been located, quite near here. *Stella Davis*

Wootton Bridge 1969

Thirty-one years? that long ago?
It seems no more than four or five; not distant.
Thirty-one? a picture forms
unfaded: there is Mike
hefting a rucksack, flower-shirted
velvet waistcoat, flaring jeans,
beard wild with curl; and there am I,
everything trailing, hair, and beads, and skirts;
decked out in rosy sunglasses, blue sandals
with purple daisies in between the toes,
dragging a patchwork bag, to which
Joanna fixed a badge proclaiming
HELP BOB DYLAN SINK THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

And in procession thousands of us walked
from Ryde to Wootton in a gentle sun
(that summer no one ever noticed rain);
waiting, we made a hundred friends
before the music started.
A poet read: his careful voice
startlingly amplified across the fields.
We clapped, and called, and basked;
then, later, music,
hot-dogs, more waiting, hunts
for where the lavatories were said to be,
and, in the dusk, anticipation
of the main event. I now admit
that I, exhausted, fell asleep
just around midnight, leaving Bob
to sing to all the others,
and drifted in a half-made world
hearing the fabled voice diffused in dreams.

We slept that night in someone's porch
in Ryde, and woke to find
a morning not like any other
then, or since: pellucid, gold,
silky with promise like a wrapped
and glittering gift.
We did not doubt our luck.

Thirty-one years? only that long?
It has the essence of another age,
when hope was normal, and credulity
untroubled by the easy claim that heaven
on earth had been located, quite near here.
Stella Davis

Southampton Graduate Stella Davis was just one of many performers and artists across the world whose activities on Tuesday 11 September 2001 were overshadowed by world events. The launch of "Watershot", Stella's book of poems resulting from her year as Poet in Residence at the Port of Southampton, took place at Waterstone's Bookshop, Southampton on that date under the auspices of Carl Major, "Bookseller Extraordinaire". The poem above, not strictly of the sequence, but included in the book for its relevance and at the behest of her friend and our Board member Veronica Tippett (and written of a time only twenty-five years post-Holocaust), says for me in its last verse what we need to remember of our capacity both to spring back - and to forget the lessons of history.
Trevor Gilson

"Watershot" by Stella Davis, ISBN 0 904939 71 5, is published by WANDA Publications, a division of WORD AND ACTION (DORSET) Ltd, Wimborne, Dorset. The book may be obtained mail order, price £5 including p&p from Watershot, 40 Belmont Road, Southampton SO17 2GE (cheques payable to 'S.D.Watershot' please). We hope you will be encouraged to pay this very modest price for an excellent series of poetic snapshots of an important (and now controversial) part of our local environment and to follow the activities of 'Loosely Grouped' (Lyn Moir, Stella Davis and Joan McGavin) our local group of talented women poets. Two more 'Watershots' follow.

Last Boat to Avalon Cargoes 2000 (after Masefield)

The man who has missed the last boat to Avalon
stands at the pierhead, his blood streaming into the sea
coating the armour which he discards
piece by piece to the small tide running beneath.

He has fought so many skirmishes, in the ordinary way
(not one of the favourites, not one of the great names
doing battle for love and glory), just hacking a path
through the enemy ranks, because that was what he did.

The fine stories meant nothing to him, nor the quests,
and he never believed in the magic. The romance
of the lovers he thought very iffy, and Sir Pure-in-heart
a fanciful fool. Even the leader, for him,
was no miracle, just a King, to whom he was loyal
all the way to the final embarkation. And now

the women have gone who might have bound up his wounds,
and his King has gone, and his comrades scattered,
and without the boat he can still see, sliding from view
so imperceptibly that it always will stay
like a graze on his eyeball, without
that promised craft, the game is up.

So he stands unassuaged in his pain, and calls to mind
how the King kissed him once, when he brought
some message he did not understand:
swept clear down the hall and embraced him
as if he belonged. He recalls this bitterly,
but will die before he has time to speak of betrayal.

Panamax and SuperPanamax containerships
docking at Southampton where the tides are high
with a cargo of every
saleable commodity
credit-worthy customers can be induced to buy.

Stacked in an air-queue high above Heathrow
planes from hungry Africa lean on the breeze
with a cargo of cash-crops
anemones, gypsophila,
out-of-season strawberries, and mange-tout peas.

Overloaded lorry on the cross-channel ferry
blaguing through the Customs in the bare bad days
with a cargo of contraband,
small arms, blood money,
economic migrants, and stowaways.

Last Boat to Avalon	Cargoes 2000 (after Masefield)
The man who has missed the last boat to Avalon stands at the pierhead, his blood streaming into the sea coating the armour which he discards piece by piece to the small tide running beneath. He has fought so many skirmishes, in the ordinary way (not one of the favourites, not one of the great names doing battle for love and glory), just hacking a path through the enemy ranks, because that was what he did. The fine stories meant nothing to him, nor the quests, and he never believed in the magic. The romance of the lovers he thought very iffy, and Sir Pure-in-heart a fanciful fool. Even the leader, for him, was no miracle, just a King, to whom he was loyal all the way to the final embarkation. And now the women have gone who might have bound up his wounds, and his King has gone, and his comrades scattered, and without the boat he can still see, sliding from view so imperceptibly that it always will stay like a graze on his eyeball, without that promised craft, the game is up. So he stands unassuaged in his pain, and calls to mind how the King kissed him once, when he brought some message he did not understand: swept clear down the hall and embraced him as if he belonged. He recalls this bitterly, but will die before he has time to speak of betrayal.	Panamax and SuperPanamax containerships docking at Southampton where the tides are high with a cargo of every saleable commodity credit-worthy customers can be induced to buy. Stacked in an air-queue high above Heathrow planes from hungry Africa lean on the breeze with a cargo of cash-crops anemones, gypsophila, out-of-season strawberries, and mange-tout peas. Overloaded lorry on the cross-channel ferry blaguing through the Customs in the bare bad days with a cargo of contraband, small arms, blood money, economic migrants, and stowaways.

Sing for the future

Fiona Moore started her 'Delicious Sounds' Community Choir in Edmund Kell Hall, Bellevue Road (off London Road), Southampton on 20 September (Thursdays 7.30-9), but you could probably join now if you're looking for a choir outside the conventional repertoires of Classical or Show music. Not quite a folk choir (and you don't have to read music), but music from many genres including world and ethnic and folk. Contact Fiona on 80 553643 or mobile 07753 846376. In similar vein, "Can't Sing, Want to Sing" is a series of workshops for Hampshire's Rural Touring Agency 'Hog the Limelight' put on by Roots Quartet (actually a duo). They are called 'Can't Sing, Want to Sing' and "are for people who want to give it a go and need some gentle nurturing and confidence boosting with like-minded people. We'll be covering chants, rounds and songs from the West of England, some gospel pieces and well, lots of fun stuff really". The first is at Long Parish this Saturday 20 October (probably a bit late to join), the remainder in the New Year on 2nd February at Hayling Island Theatre, 16th February at Cliddesden Village Hall, 16th March at Buriton Village Hall. See Anyone interested in further details should contact Penny Ward, 'Hog the Limelight' County Arts Office, Hampshire County Council,Mottisfont Court, High Street, Winchester, SO23 8ZF, e-mail: penny.ward@hants.gov.uk tel: 01962 846019. "Other choirs exist" - notably the Philharmonic, the Choral, the University Choral, Conchord Singers and Hillside Singers - the latter now winding up to final Concerts on 1 December and 20 April.

Bursledon Village Band

The Bursledon Village Band is a world-famous local folk and ceilidh band. They have a new Wild Goose CD "Straight From The Fingers". The latest collection of current favourite tunes, most are traditional English but Dave Ingledew composed a couple and there's even a French Canadian reel. It's available from Dave at Ł13 including postage and packing (samples on the BVB website eventually), contact dji@contactbox.co.uk or ring 80 457964 during the day or 80 453473 in the evening.