Rightio brilliant people, its Lido blog time and its really starting to come together. I have recorded the last person for the soundscape this week and you may see me at the Lido on Friday recording ‘ambient sounds’, yeah I know, (insert ironic maybe a little beard stroking emoji here). What I will actually be doing is teetering on the edge of the pool with huge headphones and mic, trying not fall in, trying to record the essence of the lapping pool or sumfink like that!
I will be doing a blog next week about the recording process and maybe giving a little sneek peak to tantalise you all but I wanted to get back to the title of this piece of work and who better to help me then one of my fellow Lido poets, than Ron Graves.
Ron is at present the Poet in Residence at Drapers Arms (yes the pub with good wi-fi and real ale) in Peterborough and he is doing a sterling job of embodying that poetry is living in places and people that would never consider themselves to have a rhyme in their hearts or centre. Ron not only writes with a sensitivity and philosophy that is grateful, insightful and often opposite. He also represents that poetry is accessible, relevant and is around us everywhere. He has been organising a regular poetry event each month at Drapers and the next one is on the same night as Wet Sounds, which I hope a lot of you are coming too? here is the link to Wet Sounds: Wet Sounds and a poster for the Drapers gig below. Take a look and try and pop along to either as Ron will be at both and I may well be too.
When I commissioned Ron to write a poem about the Lido, he loved the idea that people were waiting with baited swimming costumes to get back in there in May and I think he has captured that beautifully in the following poem and thanks Comrade Graves for helping me to keep faith with the belief that poetry breathes in between everything.
Find out more about Ron by having a peruse of his website:http://www.reidgraves.com/ or catch him sometime over a pint at Drapers.
in autumn when the light has thinned
and leaves long worked by time’s sure tap
to copper epidermis for the season
curl circles down with helicopter seeds
to settle in soft silent solitude
amidst the sullen tracery
of shadow buildings and a passing step
the swimmers take their leave
withdrawing to a doleful place of waiting
where no shadows fall to mark the time
but slowly turning pages measure months
in hoary mists and milky skies
bank holidays and early nights
until a smiling phoebus warms the cloud
then at the opening gates
where oil uncreaks the restless hinge
eager to stretch in welcoming the bathers
an edgy queue of supplicants will form
ready with towels goggles leaping hearts
and laughter on this longed for day
when lido’s water washes weary sins away
By Ron Graves