A GREAT BLOODY WAVE: Good Stuff

Nice write-up of Random Spectacular:

Creative Review - St Jude's Random Spectacular

markus lloyd

Published poet, artist and whatever, Markus lives in Portsmouth with wife Amy, both work in the visual arts. He typed his first poem aged 3, it went (something like):

xxxxx x x xxx x x x
xxx x x xx x x
x xxx x x xx
xxxxxx x x
xx xx x
xxx xxxx x
x xxxxx

It described the sunlight in a tree outside a window.

Since, Markus's poetry has appeared in many UK magazines (incl. Poetry Wales, New Welsh Review, Magma, Poetry London) and Seren Selections (an anthology of the freshest voices, with an emphasis on those from Wales). Markus is Welsh.

Why A GREAT BLOODY WAVE?

I adored Mrs Smith, my best mate's mother. I was eight, I guess, and she'd taken us to Dunraven Bay for a swim. She'd a picnic ready for after. The Smiths still lived in the 1950s, for the most part. My parents were hipsters, of the 70s, suburban hippies.

I'd not have offended Mrs Smith for the world. I came running out of the sea, up the beach for a towel, exasperated. What's wrong? asks Mrs Smith. I told her, directly, straightforwardly - I thought. Mrs Smith gasped and slapped my legs. She stood, called for her son, and we left. She had a word with Mam.

I hadn't any grasp of what had occurred. I was dismayed, I couldn't understand. All I knew is, I'd done something heinous. Mam asked me, what did you say to Mrs Smith? I told her about the wave that had knocked me under and tumbled me, that winded me. What exactly did you say? I said I was having fun until that great wave hit me. Mam smiled. No, what you said to Mrs Smith was 'I was okay until a great bloody wave buried me!'

What I said was 'a great fucking wave'. It took time before I was welcome back at Rob's house. I'd learnt something of the weight of language, of its effect and importance.

I didn't want to use 'fucking' in the title to this site, I chose not to.

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16/12/2011

Good Stuff

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