stabbing - 1, poetry - 0

I had to make a decision last Wednesday: fencing or poetry.

I'd been commended in a poetry competition. That meant I didn't get any money but I was invited to the awards ceremony. There was a possibility of free drinks and nibbles and a certainty of conversation about poetry. On any other night of the week, I'd have been happy to hang out with the poets. But fencing night is different.

There are, of course, fencers who are poets. I'd like to model myself on Cyrano de Bergerac as far as that's concerned. But I've yet to fence while improvising a ballade. (I'm not very good at ballades.)



I'd have enjoyed the conversation of the poets. The winning poems were excellent and deservedly placed above mine. On 23rd October I was poet of the day on the website associated with the competition, but my sestina has now been consigned to the archive.. I'm in very distinguished company.**

For a few minutes I wondered whether I should opt for an evening of poetry. But I was too tired and the award ceremony was in Derby - a bus or train journey away. I was so exhausted I wasn't sure how I would get to fencing, let alone lift an epee. Luckily a taxi was parked at the beginning of my route. I'm not sure I'd have made it on foot. I staggered out of the taxi and into the hall, glad to have missed most of the warm-up. But as usual, once I'd picked up a sword the tiredness fell away.

Once again I started with foil. I'm not a natural foilist but I'm beginning to think that a knock-about with foil helps my epee skills. Although the rules are different, fencing with foil helps me to focus and the constraints seem to prepare me for the greater freedom of epee-fencing. Perhaps the swimming heped too.

It wasn't a great night of fencing but some of my hits landed well. I may be the weakest epeeist in the club but I seem to be making progress again. And there was good conversation too.

On the walk home, I was exhilarated. An evening of poetry or an evening of epee? There was no contest.



** Anyone who works out which poem is mine may be interested to know that it was written as an exercise a couple of years ago, following a set form and set end-words. The repeated words and the form came before the subject.

fencer poet?

As part of my job, I was required to attend a poetry workshop run by Peter and Ann Sansom. (I was wearing that hoodie again.) One of the many treats was sitting next to veteran peace protestor and Quaker Alice Beer, who brought an excellent poem about making frogs. We had a morning doing quick exercises and amazing ourselves with the results, and an afternoon looking at poems in process by all participants.

This isn't going to turn into a poetry blog. However, one of the exercises, once we were all warmed up, was to write a poem, in just a few minutes, about any group of people we chose. I chose fencers so feel duty bound to incude the result on this blog, even though it could do with more polishing.

Regular readers of this blog will have no problems in picking up the final references but I'll include a link at the end for anyone who's puzzled.

Preparation for Attack

You’re in an office, see the corridor.
You’re on the train. You see an aisle.
You can’t resist. You say it.
“It’s a piste.”
Terrific

and you see yourself
in white, with an opponent.
You’re moving up and down
(clatter of blades).
You catch the lunge-attack, parry, riposte … and it’s all over.
Point for you.

For Christmas you want blades,
a glove, a bag,
a new French grip.
You search the internet, look for “escrime”
(fed up with garden fences)
and you take the test
that tells you epee is the sword for you.
You go to talks on “how to mend a foil”
and keep spare buttons in your purse.

All night you dream of new attacks.
You’re Cyrano
and interrupt ballades
to strike with each refrain.
Fighting battalions, you whisper love
and when the brick falls and you stagger, late
to Roxane’s convent,
you’ll say farewell, accept her tears
but stand alone for death
and meet him, sword in hand.

If you don't know about Cyrano de Bergerac (in the play by Edmond Rostand), you can find an outline here.

There's an English version here.

And here is the French text.