Cherry Gilchrist
  • Home
  • Books
  • About Cherry
  • Contact

Poetry from the South of France with Bill Homewood

7/7/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
I’m really proud that Bill Homewood – actor, poet and horseman extraordinaire – has agreed to contribute my first guest blog. Bill and his wife Estelle live on a ranch in the Languedoc, southern France, where they keep horses and dogs, and Bill regularly records audiobooks for Naxos. (See details of Bill’s illustrious and many-faceted career further down the page.) Bill is also partly responsible for re-igniting my love of riding, as I’ve already mentioned in an earlier blog (……..). And Estelle was my heroine back in the late 1960s, when she played Ophelia opposite David Warner with the Royal Shakespeare Company, Stratford. I hitched a ride there with my schoolfriends and queued for tickets to see her perform on several occasions.

So, on our current visit to their ranch, Mas la Chevalerie , I asked Bill if he would like to post some of his poems on this blog. He’s currently working on a collection of poems, drawn from different phases of his life. You can find more posted on his weekly Facebook Poet page at www.facebook.com/BillHomewoodsPoemAWeekByMeForYou?fref=ts
And keep on reading down the page to see Bill's three strong tips for writing poetry!



Picture
Hello there, all you Cherry-followers-

How nice to be asked to contribute to someone else’s blog!

Cherry and I share a love of language – and a love of horses.

Let’s begin with the language... Throughout my career as an actor and director of theatre, I have also written – often in my theatre dressing rooms – sometimes even during performances ! - I wrote a whole novel (as yet unpublished) during my year in Phantom of the Opera! My writing work has been varied: poetry, which I have had published in a number of magazines like Country Life, commissioned stage plays including Kafka’s The Trial for the Young Vic in London and many screenplays including Romeo & Juliet for Yorkshire Television. I have taught writing workshops in UK and America and was for a while a roving workshop director for the Poetry Society in London.

I am especially interested in Form. I believe that a difficult convention enforces inspired invention. Rhyming schemes, scansion, sonnets and variants on sonnets – these are bread and butter to me, and some of the writing I am most proud of uses complicated forms which took an awful lot of getting right! I was raised as a Shakespearean, by my Shakespearean father – so you don’t need to look far for my influences.

I have recently started publishing a series of poems on my Facebook page, as Cherry mentioned. Here are two examples, with their introductions...


Losing a friend - In 2004 we had our beloved, brave horse Patou euthanized. Inevitably, witnessing a death makes you think about dying, about loss of loved ones, about losing your partner. Patou had been Estelle’s main horse, and I wrote Before You Turn Your Face and Go Away for her. Our farm is set below the ancient ruined Chateau de Fressac in the foothills of the Cevennes. The Chateau, partly built in the 8th century in post-Roman Languedoc, and completed in the 13th century for the Crusades, must have seen a lot of deaths: “the ghosts who skitter down the hill” in my poem. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but it is fun to pretend. I imagined that, whichever of us goes first, we will eventually be reunited in death, and “fly together, dove and dove”. If only...

    BEFORE YOU TURN YOUR FACE AND GO AWAY

It was as quiet as barn or crypt in there,
The alley door asleep against the chill,
And stone-cold ghosts whipped down the granite hill,
Its oaks and broken fortress all bone-bare.

                               Some day in far-off meadow or white room
                               Perhaps I’ll stroke your cheek, kiss you and say,                                                                     Before you turn your face and go away,                               
                             Thank you - for hauling me from ordained gloom. 


The mistral blew, the alley door stayed tight.
Stock-still he stood, his tired bones and heart
And gaze all stoical. He did not start
When gloved arm probed. His eyes were just half-bright.


                              Some day on some stone floor or stair or bed
                               Perhaps you’ll cool my brow, kiss me and give
                               Me drink. I’ll whisper thanks; the will to live
                               Less sweet, I’ll slip to nothing, sweet and dead. 


Thank you, you whispered, kissing him once more,
And left us three to take a gallow’s walk.
The kindly executioner did not talk
But gently held ajar the alley door.


                                Some day down path or corridor we’ll go,
                               One on foot, the other boxed and still,
                               To join the ghosts who skitter down the hill –
                               The ghosts we knew and ones we both shall know.


We shuffled to a fine and private place.
OK bébé, I whispered, stroking him.
His eyes were heavy now, and milky-dim.
Before he fell I kissed his good old face.


                                Some day we’ll fly together, dove and dove,
                               Perhaps, my dearest partner, some day soon;
                              Perhaps, my darling, by the bowling moon
                               Or spinning sun. Who cares. The sky’s all love.


 Ocoa is the stage name of a dancer-clown-actress-singer-poet whom I met in Bogota, Columbia, in 1979. She was always smiling and positive about the future of her country, despite the terrifying poverty, crime and mess all around.

          SONG FOR OCOA

        In an aeroplane, after Bogota 

            Under the blue, this blue spread of water,
            Under the blue there are eyes:
            Eyes oiled in brine
            Film in pale, shifty blinks
            The sea stills, the dead freezes,
            The frieze of the deep, still sea.

            Behind the sea in Bogota -
            Where playtime is cut-throat in shadows,                   
            In leather dust, donkey must, where
            A city is folded, half-cooked in filth,
            Stuffed empanada of dirty small legs
            Tripping trolleys or donkeys
            Or grey by the sacks of scraps
            Or still in the grey dusty gutters
            Where blood is mud and grey in a day -
            Behind the sea in Bogota,
            Ocoa sees pictures.

            Ocoa the dancer, Ocoa sees pictures,
            Ocoa the singer, Ocoa sees pictures,
            Ocoa the poet, Ocoa sees pictures,
            Ocoa the queen is a clown.


            Under the blue, this blue spread of water,
            Under the blue there are wars:
            There is pain, there is blood
            In the blue, there are teeth
            In the roaring, muffling mouth,
            In the baffled throat of the sea.

            Behind the sea in Bogota
            Where dusk is rhythms of rage
            In the streets, in the files of men, where
            The rank and vile pavements are startled
            With hands, grey hands,
            That ask, that need, that take -
            Bogota, Bogota, Bogota - my guitar,
            My white gringo fingers, play Bogota
            Its Fall, dead-fingered leaves
            Falling dry, falling cracked,
            Broken chords at Montserrat's foot.

            Ocoa the dancer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the singer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the poet, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the queen is a clown.


            Under the blue, this blue spread of water,
            Under the blue there are whims:
            Red hesitations,
            Yawned inspirations,
            Capitulations (te quiero,
            Te quiero, te quiero...)

            Behind the sea in Bogota
            Where morning was sweet with games,
            Ocoa the Clown makes faces, her body
            Is painting a song, and she feels
            For her voice, for her place, her heaven,
            And melts herself with a scream
            In the wind, the wind that plays
            Bogota down the beat
            Of the poncing boys on the pavements
            Flung with umbrellas
            And broken, festering fig sweets.

            Ocoa the dancer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the singer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the poet, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the queen is a clown.


            Under the blue, this blue spread of water,
            Under the blue there are dances:
            Teasing and weaving are bobbins of silver,
            Flags of all colours flirting
            Or furled and unquestioning partners
            Embraced in quick black snaps.

 
            Behind the sea in Bogota
            Ocoa sees the creviced roads,
            Ocoa sees the wretched wrecks
            Of houses, tastes the smells,
            The meat, the dust, the sweets, the boys,
            The thieves, the rain, the caracol
            Of industrial dew that sweats
            On the broken stones of Bogota;
            And klaxons curse, the air is hell
            And slashed with sound and savage
            On Ocoa's laughing eyes.

            Ocoa the dancer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the singer, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the poet, Ocoa makes pictures,
            Ocoa the queen is a clown.
Bill's tips for writing poetry
Were I to offer general advice to poets, I would say:
(i)  get your poem down in rough form without worrying too much about it. Then, if a couple of rhymes have jumped up all on their own, pursue this. See if you can make this a rhyming poem.

(ii)  If you are writing a “lyric” poem without a stanzaic, rhyming or rhythmical form, remember that there must be a reason for finishing or beginning a line on a particular word. It is not enough – in fact it is lazy and clumsy in effect - simply to divide up a prose sentence and call it verse.

(iii)  Sit on your poem for a while before you show it around or submit it for publishing. As a rule of thumb you will need a three-day “cooling-off period” to make big or small corrections to a “finished” poem, and three weeks before you can be fairly satisfied that you don’t want to make changes!


Picture
Bill Homewood is well-known for his numerous television shows and leading roles in the West End and for the Royal Shakespeare Company. He has recorded innumerable classics for Naxos AudioBooks and in 2012 won the industry award (AudioFiles Earphones Award) in the USA for his recording of 'She' by H. Rider Haggard. His book 'Theatrical Letters' was published in 1995.

Bill lives with his wife, the actress Estelle Kohler (leading lady with the RSC for forty years) in the sunny South of France, where they have a small ranch.

You can find out more about Bill on his website: www.billhomewood.com


0 Comments

Riding the White Horses of the Camargue

11/9/2012

7 Comments

 
Do take a look at the previous blog post – a short homage to the horses in the form of three haiku poems

‘All we know is that when man first came to the Camargue, there were white horses and black bulls.’

So says Brenda, an Englishwoman who has been breeding Camargue horses for many years, and she should know. The white horses are almost the trademark of the area, groups of mares and foals left to roam over wide stretches of salt marshes, which are fringed with reeds, copses of pines, and at this time of late summer are covered in a froth of pale mauve sea lavender. Carefully selected stallions service the mares, while those not chosen for breeding are likely to be gelded and used for riding. The ‘guardians’ are the real riding elite here, the men who tend the bulls and tame the horses, but ordinary horse-trekking is where we’re at, in a group of riders ready to set off for the sea, some ten miles distant.

Has our recent riding prepared us for an all-day trek? Are bottoms, backs and thighs strong enough to withstand around six hours in the saddle? Even the most experienced rider (I’m making a come-back, Robert is putting in his training hours) can end up sore if out of practice. We’ll see.

We help to catch and groom our mounts, Loulevain and Garrigan, along with half a dozen other riders from different parts of France. Saddles are Western-style, which means you ride ‘long’ in the stirrups and loose with the reins, using only one hand. The horses are bred bigger than they used to be, and can go up to 15 hands or so, to cope with modern-sized riders, while still keeping the Camargue stamina, colour and character.

Our leader Caroline (pronounced Caroleen), gives us a brief explanation of the riding style, and warns us that horses may eat before, after, but never during the ride. We must go single file along roads and when cantering, and if anyone is in trouble they are to shout the universal command ‘Stop’!

‘Do not hang onto the reins, if you are afraid,’ she says. ‘Non. You have a thick mane to hold onto.’

She speaks in French unless we ask her to repeat in English. Good for improving my French, but I’m sometimes a touch confused when she releases a string of commands, each one faster than the last.

The ride takes us first along tracks sheltered by tall bamboo and fronded reeds, and through open flat fields that remind me of East Anglian fens. The difference being that here we pass herds of black bulls, and see white egrets take off in flight as we approach, sometimes followed by the majestic upward sweep of a heron’s wings. We follow dykes and small canals, trace old paths along a watery margin or sometimes have to ride single file by the side of busy roads – my least favourite part. French drivers seem to give horses little quarter. But off the main road, drivers slow, smile, and wave as we go by. Everyone wants to see white horses in the Camargue! The horses go steadily, with confidence; they must be ridden well but can be trusted to do their job

The biggest surprise of the day: we take the horses on a car ferry! Leading them onto the roll on/off flat bottomed boat, the Bac de Sauvage, we become stars for a while. Astonished passengers whip out their cameras. The horses stand placidly as we cross the Petit Rhone, and then form a beautiful cavalcade once more as we re-mount, white manes and tails flowing, necks strong and flexed, hooves neatly lifted in walk, trot, or a ‘galop’  – there is no specific French word for ‘canter’.

‘Avancez! Avancez!’

Sebastien’s horse is pounding the water with his front hoof. We’re riding through a shallow lagoon, the safe track marked out by long poles plunged at intervals into the mud. This may look like a charming circus trick, but the rider is inexperienced and does not know that this is horse talk for, ‘Water! Great – I’m going to roll in it.’ The cries of, Caroline, urging the rider to move on, are in vain. The horse drops onto its front knees like a camel, back legs following and Sebastien has no choice but to bale out in the water. Luckily, all he gets is a dousing, and the horse is brought back onto his feet before he has a chance to roll and, potentially, break the all-important ‘tree’ that holds the whole saddle together.

Now we’re into the real ‘marais’, with its marsh, mud flats and shallow ‘etangs’ such as the one we’ve just ridden through. There is a sense of primitive wildness, and a kind of collective awe descends on our company as we near our destination. We are trekking onto a private beach to which only local residents can get access. The view now opens up; the scene changes from one of eerie stretches of reed, mud and water, to Sunday picnic time on a Mediterranean beach. Not crowded, but not empty. Brenda is already there with a pick-up truck and a trailer that blossoms into a kind of snack bar; from its counter she dispenses couscous, ham, cheese and apples, along with cool, cool water – it’s hot out here – and wine rose and red for those who wish. But always see to your animals first. The horses are tied up in a long double row, girths slackened, bridles off, where they can doze during a well-earned rest. It’s been nearly three hours getting here.

Swim, eat, swap stories, and mount again for the – aagh – three hours back again. Actually, it is not so bad until just a few miles from home when some prefer to dismount and walk and others of us try to flex and stretch our stiff thighs. The girl in front of me is a comedienne, trained in theatre arts; she does a series of acrobatic poses on her pony to exercise her muscles. Robert takes his right foot out of the stirrup to ease cramp.

‘Non, non, non,’ barks Caroline crossly. ‘I want that you come back alive. Garrigan, he is bit stupid in the head.’

Robert, I think, has settled Garrigan remarkably well. He may not be the most experienced rider, but his calm and relaxed attitude goes down well with horses, and Garrigan has changed from being a fretful head-tosser to a steady and gentle ride over the last couple of days. We are all glad to have had a two hour ‘balade’ yesterday, a warm-up in preparation for the all-day ‘randonee’ today.

My horse, Loulevain, has been excellent. He is willing and reliable. His only bad habit is that he’s an accomplished thief, snatching an illicit bite to eat when my focus is elsewhere. I have had to pull a whole leafy bamboo cane out his mouth at one point. In the same way that cats wait until your attention is elsewhere before they jump on your lap, so Loulevain bides his time till I am dreaming or chatting to my neighbour. Then he lunges towards the verge and has a mouth stuffed with leaves before I’ve a chance to shorten the reins and kick him on. Still, I’m glad he isn’t totally predictable.

We amble through the small, charmingly ramshackle village of Astouin, a cluster of cottages in the Camargue fens, and then we’re back. Drink, horses – you’ve earned it. And so have we.

Next day we are a little stiff, but nothing terrible. The only battle scars on us both are where the mosquitos have managed to bite us through jodphurs and jeans respectively; we’ll spray every inch of ourselves in future.

Ride at Brenda’s (local farm, with accommodation and equestrian centre) at http://www.brendatourismeequestre.com/. Takes novices and experienced riders, also bring your own horse. Our two day stay cost around 214 euros per person, including two nights b&b, plus dinners and a picnic lunch, a two hour ride and an all-day ride.

The next post has my haiku homage to the horses. Too much alliteration already! But please do take a look.

 
7 Comments

Haiku for the White Horses of the Camargue

11/9/2012

0 Comments

 
Picture



Three haiku, for the
White Horses of the Camargue





Toss your manes, pick paths
through salt marsh, feathered reeds, lagoons.
Carry us to the sea.

As the sun rises,
Your hooves follow secret ways,
made in ancient times.

Gleaming white, you pass
through pale sea lavender, to
reach the water’s edge.



0 Comments

Back in the saddle again

18/7/2012

1 Comment

 
Picture
Riding Ebene in Fressac
Horses – did I ever think I’d ride again? My last full-on riding days were in my 30s, when I was the proud owner of Orion, a palomino with a good temper and sprightly jumping skills. Since then I have only a) ridden a horse into the rosy city of Petra b) sat on a Kirghiz horse in the Tien Shan mountains, and threatened to ride off with the Kirghiz nomads c) tried out a few ploddy rides with a local stables a few years ago. For some reason, at that time it didn’t gel. Now I’m back on top, in the saddle, sore but triumphant.

When I ask around, I find there are a surprising number of 50 or 60 somethings who yearn to get on a horse again , including those who have done just that. We’re a more cautious breed, don’t want to fall off, don’t want to gallop though maybe the teensiest jump would be OK. But the body remembers, and it’s a marvellous feeling when you just know what to do, even if the muscles aren’t quite back in top form again. Today I am aching in the thigh area, result of two excellent, efficient, and strenuous lessons that have touched parts that nothing else has for a long time.

My inspiration has come mostly from the fact that we’ve booked a gite, a full four weeks in the foothills of the Cevennes mountains in southern France. And they have three fabulous horses on site, which experienced riders can exercise, under the kindly but watchful eye of their owners, who also run the ranch and attached gite.
http://www.gite.com/france/mas-chevalerie

‘I have to be good enough for this,’ I thought. ‘I can’t bear to be living literally next door to horses’ (the gite’s kitchen window opens straight out into the covered alley where they’re groomed and tacked up) ‘and not get on one.’

We had a week’s reccy in June, and two blissful rides on the handsome and gentlemanly Ebene (‘Ebony’) convinced me that I needed to do as much as I could before our return in late August.

Here’s a potted history of me and the horse: My original name ‘Phillips’, means ‘lover of horses’ and there’s Irish stock on that side who I am sure did just that. Rode at Miss Gilbert’s stables in Lapworth, Warwicks from age of 8. No money to have own pony. Jodphurs with baggy tops and jolly good fun at gymkhanas. Object of first affections: Boozy, a hackney pony with an odd high-stepping gait. Stables well kept, secure, formal. Move to other side of Birmingham, go to shambles of a stables where horses kick each other and some are housed in pig sties. Whole place smells of chicken shit, vintage piles of which bear tribute to a failed chicken farm. Move to Streetly Riding School, run by ancient Colonel who whacks his boots with a cane and frequently asks me to sort out Buster, the naughtiest pony. Sultan, a more vicious horse whips off the top of my thumb with one bite while I’m taking off his saddle. him. Texting with two thumbs is not for me. Move again, to two more stables, each with teenage lingerers who have spiteful habits. Did I say that riding was a happy pastime? Well, mostly, as far as the horses were concerned. Age 16 or so, boys take over, horses fade into background.

Age 28, horses back on the agenda; age 34, move to Exmoor means that after several years of riding other people’s horses, I finally have my own. First of all, bad-tempered Cally who rears up and falls over backwards on top of me. Quickly sell him and buy Orion. If he does ever buck me off, he stops immediately in surprise, and comes over to sniff me, as if to say, ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Also half Exmoor pony on loan for children; Eccles masterminds regular breakouts from the field, taking Orion and livery horse along with him down the lane. His secret technique is to lean on the fence till it gives way. Loan of showjumper, Zebedee, a disaster, as his favourite practice is to jump out of the field.

Well, it’s been a big gap since then, and I’m taking it one step or one turn on the forehand at a time. Have hat, jods, and boots, and we’ll see what the summer brings. Updates later, perhaps from the glorious Cevennes.

If you’re reading this and are either a late returner or even a late starter with riding, do leave a comment here. Solidarity in the saddle.



1 Comment

    Cherry Gilchrist

    Author of books on family history, relationships, alchemy, myths & legends. Life writing tutor teaching for Universities of Oxford & Exeter. Keen on quirky, ancient and mysterious things.

    RSS Feed

    Archives

    April 2020
    March 2020
    December 2019
    January 2019
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    January 2017
    November 2016
    September 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    October 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    July 2014
    February 2014
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    April 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    February 2012

    Categories

    All
    1960s
    Alchemy
    Ancestors
    Cambridge
    Celebrations
    Cotswolds
    Curiousities
    Divination
    Elements
    Family History
    Film
    Horses
    Legend
    Magic
    Music
    Nature
    Poetry
    Russia
    Silk Road
    Spring
    Story
    Summer
    Tarot
    Theatre
    Travel
    Vintage
    Writing
    Writing Courses

    RSS Feed