writers unlimited festival (the Hague)

Had a great time at the writers unlimited festival in Den Haag, reconnecting with old writer friends Asis Aynan, Helon Habila, Chika Unigwe and, of course, Willemijn Lamp, who invited me in the first place. Apart from the diverse programme of music and literature (the kora of Zoumana Diarra collaborating with Basile Maneka at the end was sublime!), I now have a whole new set of satellites in my galaxy of writer families - Rodaan Al Ghalidi, Leila Chudori, Dinaw Mengestu, Bernice Chauly, Kopano Matlwa, Edney Silvestre. I was honoured to read English translations for Bajan Matur who I shared a ride with to the airport where I'm sitting writing this short blog, along with Miguel Conde of flip festival http://www.flip.org.br/ . The writers meeting at the beginning was genius - but I'm happy to be heading home to the family - my family!

Half-a-lime

Pops - circa 1990

I'm sharing this poem because in 5 days it will be 18 years since my father died and this was written for him - my first reader/listener. (It's taken from my collection The Makings of You, published by the fantastic Peepal Tree Press in late 2010). Last week I felt a sudden urge to buy a whole bag of limes and I've been going through them fast. I rationalised it by telling myself I was forestalling any colds that may come, but today it suddenly struck me why; my internal clock was telling me to remember Pops - funny how the littlest things can bring one solace!

Half-a-lime

His pen moves as fast as darkness scatters.

Three fleshy creases mark his forehead

as he leans pensively forward

like a question mark filled with life.

The cocks have crowed; in the streets

brooms raise dust. I rise early

I want to be the first to see him

smile, see his small, white teeth

expose themselves without inhibition

like nudists on a beach of gums.

Pigeons gather… the sun summons

its light. I head outside.

I can see him before I see him;

yesterday’s paper to his left,

a pen in his right hand

and sheaves of paper awaiting stains

The dew rises like fleeting

possibilities in the new heat.

He’s waiting. I like the song he hums;

the tenor harmony of a Jimmy Smith solo.

Silent, he passes his clean mug to me.

We’ll talk between hot sips of tea.

The kettle boils; loaded

bubbles of speech waiting to burst.

I make two cups: black, no sugar

with half-a-lime squeezed in each.

His mouth forms a vaginal shape as he sips

the heat, the promise of a new day.

Something warm passes from father to son.

Silence becomes an enduring memory.

And this week, I buy seven perfect limes. One

for every new day. I will slice them in two

each morning, squeeze one half for me, and one

half into an empty cup. For the memories.

what i'm reading/listening to
listening:
Miles Davis - Kind of Blue

reading:
Mongo Beti

Notes From a Warm Place

So, the people who invited me to read in Southern & Northern California have been sending me very lovely comments from the audience members and, I have pulled them together into a 14-line collage in celebration. My trip so far as been incredibly reaffirming - if I ever doubted that readers just love literature and want to be challenged and exposed to new worlds, my doubts have been blown away... Here's the collage/bricolage/commentage:

The poem he read to us which paralleled playing
a piano with playing basketball). I thought it was both
thoughtful and creative. Not only was he an attractive writer,
but his poetry was amazing, the perfect

antidote to an otherwise grinding week. His reading draws me in
and paints pictures; the way that he speaks of togetherness,
in terms of "we" instead of "I" says a lot about his character.
He speaks with such rhythm. I loved Nii's reading;

definitely my favorite guest speaker. The way he read
his novel was almost as if he was singing a song.
I love the way he incorporated language in his book.
He has such a wonderful spirit; I thoroughly enjoyed hearing his work.

I'm just about to order his book from Amazon.
I wish he could come back and read to us again!

Interview/Reading on VoxAfrica TV

I was recently interviewed by Henry Bonsu on VoxAfrica in relation to my new book of poems, The Makings of You. It's a long programme and I appear in the last half hour so do forward if you have to. Enjoy!

August Advances

I've become a useless doting dad. All the hustle, travel, reading, performances and (gulp!) even the writing, everything has settled to a simmer in my life and the only thing popping is Little-Miss-Daughter who (I kid you not) is amazing! She's 20 months old and already she's having conversations with me in Ga and English and scolding me (no more, Daddy, no more!). I used to think my mother was making things up when she told me the really complicated things I am supposed to have said at the age of three, but I'm beginning to believe. The human mind is truly, truly amazing! What I can't get my head around is the fact that we lose pretty much all our memory of events up to the age of 3/4, but we don't forget the things we learn e.g. language, whether or not to be afraid of dogs etc. etc. It's mind-boggling. Anyway I'll bore you no longer with Daddyhood. The good thing, with hindsight, is, I did so many sleepless nights BEFORE my daughter was born that it seems I will be releasing new work until I finish the next project. In the meantime, here are some updates.

Tail of the Blue Bird was selected by Writers' Centre Norwich as one of their Summer Reads and right through the year it's been promoted in local bookshops and libraries, which has been amazing. The initiative is now coming to an end, but until the end of August, Tail of the Blue Bird is being discussed online as well as at a special Tail of the Blue Bird Book Club Session at Writers’ Centre Norwich, 14 Princes St, Norwich, Tuesday 24th August, 6pm. To join the online discussions, just go the the WCN Facebook Page. You can even check out their reading guide.

Sticking with discussions, Tail of the Blue Bird, stands a one-in-eleven chance of being chosen for discussion at the African Writers's Evening book discussion on Friday September 17 at the Poetry Cafe and YOU GET £4 toward the cost of the book too. To vote for Tail of the Blue Bird and find out more, visit: African Writers' Evening

Now, book news - or new books news :) I mentioned the release of a Dutch version of Tail of the Blue Bird and I can confirm that it is now out and selling well (you can see it on the publisher's website) and so is the German version (also on the publisher's website), which has had a couple of decent reviews this week [Links: Die Spiegel | Watching the Detectives ]. Well, I'm guessing that they're good because I couldn't make real sense of the automatic translation!

I have also now held in my hands a physical copy of my children's book The Parade (pictured on the left) and I can assure you that it feels good. Plus I am assured that I will receive in tomorrows post a few copies of my début full poetry collection The Makings of You. I am giving five copies away, so the best five pleas I receive detailing why you should get a copy in tweet-length (i.e. text or 140 characters) will get them. I'll reveal the winners at the end of the month :) Of course, this doesn't mean don't buy the book - I need you to buy it so I can earn some royalties, but you can flog the one you bought if you win!

And finally, drum roll... the long-awaited US release! It is still long-awaited, the release date has been pushed back to 20 January 2011, but you can now pre-order it on amazon.com or BN.com AND I will be coming to the US in January/February for a whole month to promote it (with the other two books, of course!). My first reading/signing is likely to be in Rochester, NY but I'm still trying to fix dates so if you know of a local bookstore or college/university that would like to have me visit/sign/read/teach and it's on the East Coast, please contact me so we can work something out. Not many people have seen what the entire cover will look like, but... eyes-left - voila! You're the first, my fans, my everything!

what i'm reading/listening to

listening:
Omara Portuondo - la novia del filin

reading:
Arthur Gakwandi - The Novel and Contemporary Experience in Africa

Southbank blogging...

So, I'm guest blogging for the Southbank during the Poetry International series but I find that they are holding the blogs for moderation (completely defeating the object of blogging) so I'm putting my first two blogs up here so they can be of use for people who need today's information today, not in two days time!

24/10/08: Prelude
I start with a confession. After close to 8 years of constantly going to literature events - both as a writer and editor - I tend to have a cynical outlook; you could say I'm a bit jaded. That said, the Poetry International programme this year looks very interesting and since I'm masquerading as a member of The Arvon Foundation's Council of Management I'm going to try to look at things a bit differently - a sort of board's eye view, if you will. I'm particularly looking forward to Mourid Barghouti on Saturday (because I LOVE translated poetry) and the TS Eliot Prize lecture, but I will also be at Speechless on Thursday 30 October, because I know a couple of the poets by e-mail and would like to meet them, and also because I edit two of the writers in the line-up. I hope to see you at one of the events.

25/10/08: Opening Salvo: is there life before death?
I feel like I’m wandering in the dark here, dropping little crumbs of thought that I might be able to follow out again. Why? Because the first blog I submitted - Prelude - isn’t even up yet. Why ask people to blog if you’re going to censor what they write? My view is that it is an act of filtering to choose who blogs for you anyway, so, having gone to all that trouble, please, my dear Southbank techie friends, let us express ourselves.

Now to my first event: As I often find, the person whose photo graced the event was the one whose poems moved me the least, but I qualify that by saying that Jorie Graham is a great speaker - I would love for her to be my lecturer - and perhaps on the page I will connect to her poems better, yet on stage it wasn’t quite for me. A little too ponderous, in spite of a few finely wrought lines, and I found myself counting how many ‘ands’ she uses per poem (I won’t do her the dishonour of listing the number) and marvelling at how Americans from the United States love the word ‘humanity’. I found Mark Doty’s narrative style much more engaging; it brought to mind the likes of Leontia Flynn, Niall O’Sullivan with its sudden dips into the philosophical and existential, and perhaps elements of Paul Muldoon’s meanderings and playfulness with language. On the whole though - and this was true for most people I spoke to after the readings - the really striking poetry came in the first half; from Valzynha Mort who in the simplest of language (I’m not certain she has the best translators I must say) amongst many heart-rending passages from the book The Factory of Tears, spoke of lighting the candles of TV sets, thus illuminating a peculiar truth of the modern world - most people can find a TV easier than they can find a candle these days. Valzynha was followed by Mourid Barghouti (the reason I went to the reading in the first place) and he did not disappoint. Am I swayed by the fact that for thses two poets we were reading their ‘texts’ off a sky-high grey screen? I think not - there is something about cadence and truth that transcends language and medium. So, back to Mourid. Absolutely fantastic irony, uncanny eye for everyday happenings that reveal the world. In his words, there are trees whose only fruit is greenness - so true - but only un vrai poète notes that their details belie their sameness and their radiance confirms it [see the complete poem here] and speaks it with ease, humour and compassion from a podium that hides nothing. So too with this event: we saw four poets and there is no doubt that all of them have work that comes to life on the page, but is there life away from the page?

Stolen from Hip Hop

OK, so I'd been going into schools and, in trying to get my students, to apply critical minds to poetry, I'd taken in song lyrics, hip hop lyrics - you name it. But they kept making distinctions. So what I came up with, eventually, was a series of poems (one of which I have pasted below) which borrowed heavily from lyrics. I then asked them what they thought of these 'constructions' and they said, 'yeah, nice poems, but more intricate than lyrics.' Then I said, 'well most of the lines here are taken from or inspired by song lyrics so your homework is - guess who wrote what'. Now I'm sharing with you guys... The game here is - if you're a hip hop fan - to guess the origins of the lines in the poem and add them as a comment. To make it easier the lines are numbered - enjoy!

Miss H in the City
by Nii Ayikwei Parkes with props to the original lyricists who inspired the collage

I

1. I arrive in the city at dawn, just before sunrise, step
2. onto shore with hope bright in my eyes. This is
3. a new start; new dreams away from the hearts I broke;
4. excitement’s got my heart racing like a hummingbird
5. pacing. I try to be cool and patient, but it’s harder than
6. the calculus of quantum leaping. See I’m a small city
7. boy with big city dreams, I’ve dreamt of this existence
8. amidst the harbour lights; ships coming and going
9. like ghosts, dropping – like flies – new dreamers
10. who prayed for wings. Now I take it all in; its five
11. dimensions, its six senses. I feel the seven firmaments’
12. force and hold myself back from screaming. I sit
13. outside myself, observe from a bird’s eye view, a boy
14. descending into this fantastic beautiful mess. I wrestle
15. with words and heartbeats seeking the phrase to express
16. the moment, but the usual is no longer suitable. So
17. I rest my eyes on a purple bud bursting into a high-five
18. flower, its reflection shimmering on tranquil waters
19. like something greater than depth, something eternal.

II

1. And soon there is a girl; filled with magic
2. and strife and scaled just right. A smile
3. like a spear, on point and timed to perfection.
4. I lose myself in it, hear a distant bass ride
5. out like an ancient mating call. The duration’s
6. infinite – enough time for me to ponder sugar,
7. spice, and other things she might be made of.
8. I feel my flesh burn, my cell walls disintegrate
9. to allow me to absorb her essence. Her head is
10. wrapped but her aura peeks out at the back.
11. The big city’s first riddle and I have no answers.
12. It’s too loud to think; maybe my dreams are
13. larger than my hands can grasp. I realise now
14. the streets are too shrill to ever hear freedom
15. sing, too crammed for love to grow wings.
16. A new moon rides high in the metro’s fading
17. crown; across the way the ancient is manifest
18. in knife fights. I take a deep city breath, watch
19. my broken dreams fly to where waters fall
20. as she walks away – a devil in a blue dress,
21. a beast in a blue Chrysler, karma coming back
22. hard. My chest heaves against the evening’s
23. flesh. I sigh, watch the city lights throb
24. against a purple flower’s reflection, hope
25. that from this night a sweet dawn will come.

Re:configuration

It's been a while since I blogged and I don't think I will properly for a few weeks yet - way, way too busy! But I recently had a poem Re:configuration published in the PEN International Magazine (the issue is on shelves now and most of it can be seen online at: http://www.internationalpen.org.uk/go/pen-international-magazine), which I'd like to share part of as a post. I'm particularly happy the poem got published for two reasons

1. It's one of my favourites,
   
2. It's one of my more experimental ones.

So, I'm sharing what I call it's second movement, but don't just read - please, let me know what you think...

II

The story is simple; my father went

with a cancerous light, chasing Swedru

in the shadow of his fat/her for answers

to questions he divined I would ask

forgetting that project/ions dance, shift

like rhythms. In a hot panic he left

before night could come to hurry him

along with songs. My mother bears the scars

but only a fraction of the answers; for

how was she to know she would be the one

I clawed at for maps of my existence – one

in a role meant for absent sound/and/light?

So I am left with darkness; the high

window through which imagination creeps,

the room I at/tempt to enter to evoke

more than fading echoes of footsteps that

haunt me. I am a slave to the hard hold

unable to yield chance to the light/less

of grip that all moments employ for

the velo/city of sand’s passing. Maybe I am

slowly learning that with each green breath

I blow my life away. Rushed, all I want

is for my father to explain what I mean

to my name, how I be/came configured

as Parkes when I don’t harbour its phantom

rhythm beneath my tongue.

I have lost

my way again: did I not hear the tri/angle

and the gankogui tinkling responses into

the vacuum of the drum’s silence? My

father is rest/less again. Please tell him

to open his window for my tear/full chants

have left me hoarse – and my siblings

the thieves too; who took his skin, spirit

and mind, leaving me captive in his body.

We confess our parents never truly told us

their names, we over/heard others calling

them Auntie and Uncle, Mr and Mrs so and so

so we did the same. Did we err? Did I

trap my pa/rents by calling their red shadows

names meant for colours? All I know

is that I am at/tuned to brown like no other

shade, yet cold breath haloes frame me black.

Poetry Review Comment/Poem

Those of you who know me will know I'm one of those poetechs/wiredwriters who is intermittently plugging in to technology - blame it on my two engineer brothers and (of course) my own background in physics/biochemistry/microbiology and the rarely-confessed four hours programming on my friend Ebow's ZX Spectrum when I got so fascinated by the things I could get the computer to do and record on tape - yes, tape! - that I got home late and got my arse acquainted with a lost branch from some random water-starved tree in Accra. Anyway, that's a long roundabout way of saying I put my name in a google alert and got this little nugget from a blog about my poem in the Poetry Review:

"However, there is surprising news for today - I've just finished reading the latest "Poetry Review" magazine and it's the first time I've closed the final pages and haven't wondered what on earth all the fuss was about. Not a bad edition really - an undercurrent of pretention here and there of course, but at that level you probably have to expect it. There were some poems I even enjoyed (Good God, Carruthers, pass me the smellings salts: the words "enjoy" and "Poetry Review" have never been in the same paragraph before). I will even go so far as to say I noted some poets and their collections down on my buying list. Particular favourites were Siriol Troup for being charmingly Japanese about WH Auden (ah, the story is in the spaces, m'dear ...), Hugo Williams for being charmingly Victorian, Nii Ayikwei Parkes for putting the people back into politics, and Jane Draycott for a wonderful scene of miscommunication. Also nice to see my old favourite, Neil Rollinson, in there. Though they were rather snippety about his latest collection, Demolition. Hey, I didn't think it was that bad. Not vintage Rollinson for sure, but not terrible!" - the blog is Anne Brooke's Writing Journal

Putting 'the people back into politics' - I thought, yeah, that's probably an accurate description of what I try to do, but whether or not I'm successful is always up to the reader - it's just good to know that occasionally people feel what I'm trying to say - on that note, here's an excerpt from the poem for those of you who haven't had the chance to pick up the review (On Pleasure):

Lebanon was in a shade of peace – stilled
from war – and regardless of what anyone said
about you, I had never heard a name so

beautiful; Sajeeda. Late afternoon, we held

hands by the gutter as we walked to our
secret haunt. Above the graveyard of cars,
our seven year old bodies twisted into

the rust and glass cage of a Nissan Sunny –
forsaken. Nested, we didn’t consider the odds
of dropping like dislodged eggs. In that

strange skyscraper of scrap – a monument
to your mechanic father’s failures, the precise
shape of the green tree in his flag – we

solemnly undressed, as one. We embraced

More information on the issue here

and that's it for today :)

the wake of change

The last time I blogged Sekou Sundiata had just died. Since then, another literary man - one of my Ghanaian predecessors - Kwesi Brew, has passed on. It's been a period full of mourning, wakes and wakefulness. In the Ga tradition we believe that when someone goes to the other side someone takes on their role in this world, so my thoughts have now turned to the replacements, the poets who will take on the roles, the public voids left by the departure of Sekou and Kwesi. Of course, the replacements will have to carry on being themselves, but better, more elevated selves so that some other emerging writers can become their lesser selves, and so the world adjusts. I will blog on that subject - the idea of who replaces Sekou and Kwesi - later, but for now I remain mindful that in the midst of chaos, there is always cause for celebration and how true that has turned out to be! One of my other poet idols, Charles Simic, has been made Poet Laureate of the United States and I'm ecstatic because he is truly a rare, unconventional and brilliant poet. His book A Wedding in Hell is one of my favourite poetry books along with a few Nerudas and Heaneys, Li Young Lee's The City in Which I Love You and Atukwei Okai's Oath of the Frontomfrom (of course I love all the writers I have edited for waterways and mouthmark but that's another story). Anyway, you can read a poem by Simic on the online version of the New Yorker...

While you're online reading, check out this lovely list of fifty new African writers to watch that I'm privileged to be on... and also go to the Writers Fund Amazon wish list and buy something for the project I'm running in Ghana. I've already got quite a bit lined up but not much in the way of these much-needed books for the Writers' Centre I'm helping set up at the Pan African Writers Association building in Accra. I'm heading out there soon to run some workshops and do some work on the ground so it would be great if a few books turned up while I was there.

Anyway, I'd better go and sleep, but I promise to be a better blogger this August!

what i'm reading/listening to

listening:
Internal Affairs by Pharoahe Monch

All I can say about Pharoahe is he's irreverent, but artistic as hell. His wordplay makes every swear word worth listening to, because each one has a purpose. Great sense of plot too; his storytelling skills would put many a short story writer to shame and, of course, he rhymes as though Queen's needs his end rhyme to build houses with and his internal rhyme to put fuel in their cars. The Mrs and I saw him live in London last month and his new album, Desire, sounded wonderful live. Probably worth checking out too...

reading:
A Heart So White by Javier Marias:

This book was recommended to me by a good friend, Hisham. It is heavy with detail in every scene, moments in which the author pauses to interrogate the world, but it all adds up to make a great story. I'm almost done now...

News Source: Guardian (for Simic announcemnt)

Sekou Sundiata - sadly departed

I am sad today. When the flu came I should have known something was in the water; one of my heroes has crossed over. Sekou Sundiata, for me, will always signify the richness of metaphor in voice, writing so complex but delivered with simple heart and emotion so that the vocabulary doesn't throw you; you just get in and he leads you to the full stop.

Sekou, thanks for the inspiration; I will miss you...

"everything in the dream is the dreamer" - Sekou Sundiata
"women believe that God is a man, but a man is very horny." - Sekou Sundiata
"last night I had a nasty dream with peaches and I woke up stuck to myself" - Sekou Sundiata
"the first picture I saw of Charlie Parker was a naked bird on a busted branch with broken wings in Abyssinia Baptist Church" - Sekou Sundiata
"somewhere in America you could buy fries to go with that shake of yours" - Sekou Sundiata
"the year the Mississippi river just sat, like a hard promise, choking on vessels of commerce" - Sekou Sundiata

Most of these quotes are from a poem called "The Sound of Memory", which is perhaps my favourite Sekou poem. Go out there and find him and buy him; all we have left is his voice, but what a voice it is!

NIN

No, it's not Nine-Inch-Nails, it's Nii in the News :)

Just thought I'd share a review from my hard slog at the Brighton Fest:

Wordplay
Nii Parkes
Trying to get kids into Yeats is a tough job, so although Parkes did his best, his own poems about his mum were far more popular with this crowd. Plenty of fun exercises filled this hour-long workshop, with the children briefly discussing their views on poetry (primarily that it should rhyme) before getting stuck into creating poems about themselves and their passions (primarily chicken nuggets). An interesting task saw them learn about writing from the subconscious, signified by an aggressive green lollipop stick. The children obviously had fun being creative, but the session was far too short to really get into much depth on the subject - yet even a short handover makes a welcome break for parents, and Parkes makes a relaxed and inspiring tutor.

(from threeweeks.co.uk)

In the meantime my poem appears on the underground on Monday June 4 (date of the first coup I experienced in Ghana) and there have been some related press releases:

http://www.tfl.gov.uk/corporate/media/newscentre/5221.aspx
http://www.poetrysoc.com/content/education/potu/

And I have come into my own as a contemporary writer:
http://www.contemporarywriters.com/

Finally, I came upon a wikipedia Germany entry for me which I googleated (google-translated) for fun, and it was delicious to find out what gets a rise out of me:
Nii Ayikwei Parkes is a Ghanaian writer and artist, who write Kurzgeschichten, articles, song texts and also RAP. Parkes lives and works at present in London, where he arises to literature also in a Café. Its work has an emphasis in the youth culture, since Parkes works gladly with children and young people.

new publications

well, not altogether new publications, not all of them:
i have some new poetry in the online oregon literary review that you can read by clicking this link - i think this was in 2006, but I was busy so I forgot to share the good news
and i've also had my story scotch bonnets appear in another Canadian magazine - a nice homely magazine called Ottawa at Home (it doesn't really have its own site but the link will get you some information). my surname was misspelled as Parke in the issue but i'm not stressed - a bit of money in the bank; they got my important names right :)

what i'm reading/listening to

listening:
Roy Ayers - Perfection (OK, just 'cos I'm in a busy period and I'm not hotlinking the titles doesn't mean you shouldn't check them out. Roy is amazing!

reading:
Alice Munro - The Love of a Good Woman (First time I'm reading a full collection from AM - interesting stuff)

what's with the dollar bill?

So, I visited a workshop and the students were asked to find a photograph and write something in the style of Lloyd Schwartz's (great critic) Tom Joanides: Which of these statements is true? Being a writer, I could only get my hands on a dollar bill - George Washington - and this is what came out:

Georgie, what's the deal really?

(a) I don't like smiling (b) I'm not smiling because I'm sitting
on hot coals (c) My mother styled my hair after a wave
that nearly drowned her (d) My mirror broke and I needed my friend
to etch me so I could see myself (e) I designed my own clothes using curtains
(f) I love fashion; my favourite colours are black and green (g) I'm a highlander;
there can be only one me (h) I'm a tender person, but don't be misled -
I'll break your back (i) I'm an illegal immigrant with private and public
debts (j) I slept with Faulkner (k) I'm so powerful they named a city
after me (l) Rappers yank my chain (m) Don't let the print fool you;
I'm Black (n) You can wake up now.

OK, you all have a good day now. I will be back to normal (whatever that is!) blogging duties soon :)

what i'm reading/listening to

listening:

Just got myself a little mp3 player and I'm listening to a post-supper mix of Marvin Gaye, Amel Larrieux, Van Hunt and Amy Winehouse. For lunch I had B.B. King and Jimi Hendrix; The Thrill was definitely in the Red House :)

reading:

Recently finished Andrei Makine's "The Woman Who Waited", which was good, but I'm in writing mode now - commercial - I have to finish some articles I've been asked to write.

birthday, no blues

my roman-symmetrical birthday came and i felt no blues - except for the moment i stopped to remember how marvin gaye died on my 10th birthday. i even wrote a haiku in the morning - a sign that my zen is maturing:

barrage of goosebumps
a corporeal down payment
for afternoon sun

otherwise, all goes well in California. i visited a remarkable middle school, Nimitz in Huntington Park, CA as part of the university's outreach programme and had the fullest day ever - from 7:25 until 15:13 reading poetry, running workshops, answering questions - i was completely hoarse when i got home. but, to balance that i had ice cream yesterday - cold stone creamery in long beach, CA - it was sooo good (see their website for pictures :)). i made my own mix of banana/coffee ice cream with pecan nuts, almonds and caramel, with the thickest crunchiest waffle ever

and who said we have to age gracefully? here's to 33 going on 3

the california season

It seems like I've carried a bit of the rain with me to California. It's rained twice; quite heavily yesterday in the tropical style - violent and brief. I'm teaching/in residence in the English Department of the California State University in LA, but the Department is housed in the Engineering and Technology building. As soon as I got to it I felt at home - the story of my life; an engineer/scientist turned writer. Anyway, it's been good so far: I've been in one editorial meeting for sentence, the in-house literature magazine, the introductory class for creative non-fiction and I've had a couple of one-on-ones with students - more on the way today. I haven't had a bad time with writing; I think I'm being fairly productive - my aim is to get the beginnings of a definitive poetry collection done before I leave the US, so I'm doing it a day at a time. Yesterday, I settled on a concept for grouping my poems so now I'm going to group them, edit and weed out the crap, then send a rough draft out to my agent. In the meantime, in between times :) I've been writing a couple of haiku. These three celebrate nightfall in cali and the fact that I've seen no energy saving bulbs around...

#1
rare as brown flowers
fluorescent bulbs crouch in packs
the earth flames at night

#2
homicidal lights
fret like insomniac starlings
warning signs in neon

#3
leaves fade, bulbs burn slow
lights gleam like knives in alleys
the world mugged by night

what i'm reading/listening to

listening:
Jimi Hendrix on my laptop

reading:
Other people's poems - editing really....

hard work

In the last few weeks I've realised just how hard it is to keep a blog regular and up to date. Indeed it's been easier to keep my podcast going, and it's just occured to me that the podcast is so much more focused - I turn on the microphone and I have a clear goal; to read one poem. This blog on the other hand is freestyle and because I'm a broody kind of fellow (yes, to the tune of 'stubborn kind of fellow') it's hard for me to sit and write - I do so much in my head and when my head is heavy with thoughts, worries, responsibilities etc. etc. it's hard for me to put anything out in a blog. Emotionally, I haven't been on even keel for a long time. Juggling all the things I have to do to keep afloat as a writer I go through highs and lows like a newborn through diapers. Black History Month UK ^TM has just come to an end and given my life back to me, but here's a diary of occurences:

HIGH: The Barbican hosts a book launch for a poetry imprint I started a year ago ( AMAZON UK Link | AMAZON US Link)
LOW: BUT Printer goes out of business and I'm not sure if we'll have books on the launch night: I lose FIVE days of writing to sort this out and eventually we get the books - the launch was fine but, man I will NEVER get those five days back!

LOW: Tash Aw and I are distressed by the stories we have received for the anthology we're editing together - good stories are too similar; other stories are too bad! It's clear we'll have to put the launch date back.
HIGH: We send a distress message out and get a few more stories - we think we're OK... fingers crossed

HIGH: I get some Arts Council Funding to work on my second novel; it's meant to kick in in late October so I can stop doing gigs and concentrate on writing
LOW: I'm still waiting for the money :) - it will come, I know, but I'm still on gig street - my next is at the Folkestone Literature Festival on November 16; if you live in Kent, do come and check us out... oh, and buy some books - I've got to eat!

HIGH: One of my best friends, a pilot, is passing through from Switzerland, in the same week my girlfriend gets a great job (I forsee loads of free lunches and dinners!). I'm supposed to be able to see them both...
LOW: Yep, you guessed it... In spite of hours of phone coordination, I see neither :)

LOW: My account reaches the low point of £24.09 balance
LOW: All my bills arrive on November 1
LOW: Paying my rent takes my current account into the red; I have savings but people owe me money for gigs - it's the principle; I'm NOT transferring money from my savings!

HIGH: I manage to conduct 4 (FOUR) editorial meetings with my writers in one week - that's a record even for me!
LOW: I didn't get to see my girlfriend again! Not a good time to mess around, now she's all MINTED and I'm an ARTIST!

HIGH: I get e-mails from St Petersburg, Vancouver and Dayton. People are actually listening to my podcast!! Here's all the links to new outlets:
http://feeds.feedburner.com/flippedeye/MoQq | http://odeo.com/channel/142141/view | My Odeo Channel | http://www.podcastpup.com/pod.asp?ID=1914
HIGH: I finally send some short stories off to the New Yorker and The Paris Review, with another ready to go to the London Magazine and one coming up for Wasafiri - I don't know what will come of them, but I haven't made a submission in close to two years so it's a huge deal for me.

LOW: It's cold as hell. Winter is my least productive period in the UK 'cos I just can't talk myself out of bed... Hmmm...


So there you have it. A little summary of the Life of I. It's not all work and doom though. I have found some great video podcasts of cartoons and since cartoons have been an obsession since I was three years old, I've had some good times... I also got nostalgic about the Ghanaian football team who will be playing Australia at Loftus Road on November 15 and (seeing as we've had problems mainly with strikers) spent some time checking out one of our great stikers online:

Tony Yeboah spent most of his playing career in Germany and averaged better than a goal every other game. I found some cool vids of a couple of his games on what I now call Goo Tube. Nothing from the better part of his career at Frankfurt though. Here's my lil summary:

Tony Yeboah:
62 appearances – 33 goals for Leeds
123 appearances – 68 goals for Frankfurt

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBx_c8Y0r0c – Incredible goal for Leeds
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYZo6fjQacs&NR – Hat Trick against Monaco

What I'm listening to? Luther Vandross' new best of... I love Luther like my own brother!
I'm reading Wallace Stevens (Poetry) and about to get into Fatou Diome (Fiction) translated from French by a friend I made at a translation conference - in case you missed it, I write in Ga as well, that's why I was there - in Cambridge; Roz Schwartz.

missed stops

So i'm in NYC, we had a great book launch for Truth Thomas' Party of Black at the Bowery Poetry Club and I've been trying to relax and write. Verdict? I've still got the writing blues, but it's only affecting my prose, not the poetry. I guess I'll have to go with that. I cheered myself up today by doing what I often do when I'm with my Mom... Oh yeah, I've been hanging with my Mom for 8 days straight: nothing like riding a cross-state bus with your mother. It kind of tells you if you've been raised right or not. If you can't have a conversation, something went wrong between breast milk and moving out. I'm proud to say Mom & I have had a blast - laughing at people, debating post-natal depression (Mom's a retired midwife), and trying not to spend too much money, which has been surprisingly easy considering that my mother loves shoes the way she does... So, where was I? I googled myself (that's how I prove to her I haven't been wasting my time) and I am still tickled to find that a Manchester student rag saw me perform with Dead Prez and thought my set was the most moving of the night (link here) but the coolest link is my British Council/CalStateLa residency link http://www.calstatela.edu/academic/english/nparkes.htm YES, I HAVE ARRIVED! Now, who wants to take bets on how long it takes before I'm feeling low again?

Here's one of my poems:

Lapse

The Greyhound is late. I’ve been fast
asleep too long to know why, but the man
beside me – Chinese – tells me what time it is.

He turns to the back-lit maze of his phone, taps
a geometry of buttons, gets lost in an exchange
about auditions and lost opportunities. I look

across the aisle: the big guy with the Yankees
cap has struck up a dialogue with the Polish
woman beside him. Her dark eyebrows arch –

an eager pair – in synch under her blond hail; I can
tell she’s open; so is he, but he’s fearful, hasn’t
yet learnt the curved asymmetry of lust. There is

already a lapse between her keenness, his lean
and the speed of his initiative. Somebody should
tell him that if the lapse grows any longer

the door of chance will close – snap in
his face. It’s already too late. The bus is
drifting into Harlem, Connecticut a distant memory:

I hear him say excuse me, he calls his Mom. A pink
rose blooms on the woman’s cheek, she looks
outside. I hang my head, exhale, and close

my eyes. The man beside me snaps his phone shut.