I wanted to write today about A.S. J. Tessimond’s quietly self-effacing poem, ‘Not Love, Perhaps’.
I couldn’t write yesterday, despite the day beginning very early in a hotel room in a Norwich Premier Inn: I needed to do some other work things and sacrificed my reading and writing hour to expediency.
In the afternoon, not wanting to skip a day (got to keep practising) I started writing this post on a cross-country Norwich-Liverpool train which made 24 stops (including places I don’t usually get to travel through like Ely, Grantham, Alfreton, Sheffield, Irlam and Widnes). The 5+ hour, journey, with no wifi and no electric plug felt like the olden days of the 1980s and in the end, I stopped writing to enjoy the sight of England, and to have a long read of my book and a little sleep, and my salad box lunch and some Norwich raspberries and to think about Norwich and the people I had met all too briefly at the International Literature Showcase. This is what train journeys used to be like!
I was at the Showcase to give a talk about the work of The Reader and to listen to other people describe their work spreading the word. Terrific to start the day with a performance of her poetry by Sophia Walker, a woman of verbal felicity and punch, lit by rhythms of hip hop and Shakespeare.
I went on to read from Bleak House – the visit of Esther and co to the brickmaker’s cottage with grim Mrs Pardiggle, the evangelical missionary to the poor. It was good afterwards to be in conversation with a few people who said how relevant and fresh the Dickens was, how appalling to feel much is still the same.
Pop Up Projects were on next, and founder Dylan Calder gave a compelling account of the change Pop Up is bringing about. I very much liked the idea that authors in the Schools Book Festival are not there to sell books nor simply read them but to talk to children about how they create books. If creativity is the answer to an over-developed western economy (and I say it is) then we have got to learn how to help children believe in and practice their own powers of creativity.
Before heading to the Cathedral Hostry – amazing HLF funded building – where the Showcase was taking place, I walked round Norwich between 8.00 and 9.00, a beautiful hot, quiet morning. This was my first visit this ancient Cathedral City, with some lovely things.
Plus, less lovely, and more standard, before 9.00 am, plenty of people sleeping in shop doorways. About as many as I’d see in Liverpool, I think. One was a young clear-faced young man, pink-cheeked, blond-curled like a cherub, leaning against a wall sleeping upright, with his feet swathed in a bin bag. He looked under twenty. What are we going to do about that? Dickens, thou should’st be living at this hour, as Wordsworth said of Milton.
But to the poem, which I read earlier in the week with a small group of people who work in the Social Enterprise and Storybarn teams at The Reader; ‘Not Love Perhaps’ by A.S.J. Tessimond. You’ll find the poem here.
Is it love? we asked, or is it a kind of friendship? Or is friendship a kind of love? We spoke of the tricky Hollywood version of love, ‘love that lays down it’s life…’ I’m not sure love would, said one of the group members, lay down his life for me. Oh yes, one of the group’s men asserted, especially if there was a baby. Ok, so maybe that self-sacrificing love does exist, some of us conceded, but this is not that:
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
Yesterday at ILS, when I read Bleak House, I asked the audience to use their imaginations to make themselves become members of Shared Reading groups – made-up personas, but made-up from real elements of many real people I have met.
The man who has had a severe breakdown, the woman whose children have abandoned her, the person who lost their job, someone living with a severe and chronic illness, the recovering addict, the woman who has been a victim of violent abuse since childhood… imagine you are that person, I asked, sketching personas. Choose a character, be Bill, be Susan and imagine them, think their thoughts, feel their feelings as I read.
I didn’t ask my audience to speak aloud so I don’t know if they did adopt any of those fictionalised personas. But reading the scene in the brickmaker’s cottage, I stopped at the moment where Jenny covers her bruised black eye so her baby might not see it:
…as soon as the space was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire, to ask if the baby were ill.
She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before, that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and violence and ill-treatment, from the poor little child.
Imagine you are Susan, I asked my colleagues in the audience, badly abused since early childhood. Read this as Susan, whose children were taken into Care to protect them from the same abuse. Imagine reading those words as Susan and remembering the number of times your children have seen you bruised and how you didn’t want them to see you…
That moment in a shared reading group where Susan may or not choose to share her experience aloud is one of the key contributors to the connective power of the experience. People are feeling, sometimes talking, sharing, sometimes in silence, the same deep experiences. This is not love, perhaps…
But something written in a lighter ink, said in a lower tone:
Something perhaps especially our own.
A need at times to be together and talk
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places
And meet more easily nightmare faces.
In this week’s staff reading group we talked about the fact that having a good social network helps people survive illness, trauma. And yesterday morning at my early breakfast in a Norwich café, I read that by 2030, 3m. people will be suffering chronic loneliness in the UK. We need real time face to face networks in which people can relearn their close human connections.
There’s nothing forced here. I spoke about the fact that people do not have to speak in Shared Reading. In one of my early groups one woman did not speak, making no verbal contribution to the group, for over a year. We offer an opportunity and then we wait. And if we wait without pressure, the possibility of becoming an active speaker will, more often than not, come: this poem gives words to the necessity behind that common occurance.
A need at times of each for each
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.
In our staff group we stayed on the thought of ‘each for each’ for a while, noticing how it was both personal and yet bigger than personal. Is the word ‘person’ elided? Does ‘each for each’ imply ‘a need at times of each (person ) for each (other person)’ Or is ‘each of us’ implied? We didn’t stop to notice of those little bits of gristly connective ‘of each for each’ the of and the for doing something extraordinary in a kind of giving and taking – (and is there an echo of Marx’s famous slogan there? It seems to echo so in my mind.)
The need, poet concludes is ‘direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech’. We considered the physicality of throat and tongue – the way they must move muscularly to get language up and out. Do they need speech, rather than create it?
Is our need for each other in that sense primal, unignorable? And if so, what are we going to do about the boy on the street outside the bank in Norwich, and what about the 3 million lonely people?
Tessimond’s poem or Bleak House, shared with another reader, can help.
For some Reader Leaders, Read to Lead courses and support are paid for by their place of work, others pay out of their own money, and some, who might be very good at it, don’t have an employer and can’t afford to pay for themselves.
We want to develop 20,000 groups over the next five years.If you can’t run a Shared Reading group yourself, you might consider making a donation which would help someone else to do so.
It costs £900 to train and support a volunteer for two years. Contact me if you can help.