I have in my hand a poetry book. On the cover is my name, the title strange fruits, a woodcut image of a tree and a logo of a llama. On an inside page there is a photo of my friend Karen McAndrew and I, drinks in hand, at The Sweeps Festival, Rochester. It is the only photo I have of Karen and I; she died at the end of November, four weeks after a cancer diagnosis.
Earlier this year I was laid up with a bad back thinking about Karen. It seemed unreal that we would never again mooch round the charity shops of Rochester, share a pub lunch in Ye Arrow. I wanted to do something in her memory. I’m a writer of poetry and fiction, so I decided to collect some of my poetry, publish it, and raise funds for Macmillan Cancer Support. The irony is that Karen didn’t like poetry, wasn’t much of a reader at all. But writing is what I do, how I process the world.
I approached WordAid, a collective of Canterbury-based poets who publish books in aid of various charities, and asked if I could publish under their banner. They agreed. Then it was a case of calling on help-in-kind from friends and family. My husband, Bob Carling, is a freelance editor; nephew Sean Reilly a webmaster and marketing specialist; poet Moniza Alvi agreed to provide a back-cover endorsement for the book; Medway artist and writer Maggie Drury designed a cover image; Vicky Wilson and Nicky Gould of WordAid advised throughout the process.
My back problem persisted, and during periods of lying flat and trips to the osteopath I had another idea. The book had a title, but we needed a name for our publishing imprint. I have a thing about llamas, their comical yet wise expressions. One night, with llama-based names running through my head, I switched on the light, and made a list. The result was Cultured Llama Publishing.
But why stop at publishing? I have long been interested in combining spoken word and music. There are poetry events and music events, but rarely are the two put together. Why is that? The links between poetry and music are plain to hear – the rhythm and metre, the musicality of words. An evening of poetry can be too much – audience attention fades; people leave. So why not take a multi-arts approach to some of the book-launch events?
I emailed a few contacts, and within twenty-four hours had several poets and musicians on board plus an African dance group. This has grown into ‘From Page to Stage’ an evening of spoken word, music and dance at the Avenue Theatre, Sittingbourne on 1 October. All artists are giving their talents for free and all profits will go to Macmillan Cancer Support.
As for the poems in strange fruits, they chart my Medway years, my move to Swale, my life as a girl and woman of Irish heritage, relationships, and a new sequence of poems on dentists. It’s interesting to see how my writing has shifted from the urban in ‘After the Fire at Matalan’ (below) to rural concerns in the title poem ‘strange fruits’.
I apologise to Medway Broadside readers for my defection from Medway to Swale. Although I love the view over an orchard from the converted shed where I write, my heart belongs to Medway.
As for Karen McAndrew, what would she have made of a book in her memory? I showed it to another friend. ‘Will you do a book for me one day?’ she said. I hope that I won’t be commemorating any more lost friends. But you haven’t seen the last of Cultured Llama.
Maria C McCarthy
strange fruits will be available from 9 July from www.culturedllama.co.uk and www.WordAid.org.uk or by sending a cheque for £9 inc p&p , £15 p&p free for two copies to Maria McCarthy, 11 London Road, Teynham, Sittingbourne, ME9 9QW. All profits go to Macmillan Cancer Support.
Maria will be reading from strange fruits at Gillingham library on 24 September at 2.00 pm with readings from local guest poets and songs from Southern Africa, Kent and the rest of the world from Swale Sings community choir.
Tickets for ‘From Page to Stage’ are available from The Avenue Theatre box office. The evening features writers, musicians, singers and dancers living in Medway, Swale and Canterbury.
After the Fire at Matalan
Men in uniform lift and lower the tape
for other men in uniform
as the crane rises and circles.
Neighbouring stores close, choked by the acrid plumes.
Bank holiday shoppers deprived of DIY and carpets.
And those of us housebound by the flames
walk by late afternoon to view the carcass
of this giant industrial bird, its curved bones
bared like a half-carved turkey,
and inhale charred remains that float,
then settle on the concrete of the retail park,
ochre insulation like discarded nesting.
Close to Christmas,
graffiti-ed hoardings disguise the deconstruction,
apologise for the inconvenience, while skip lorries
rattle the ashes of the pyre through the town.
Viewed through the square link fence,
an open space, a pile of rubble.
And still stray slices of the old bird’s nest
skim the car park, perch on the branches of the winter trees.
Maria C. McCarthy writes in a shed at the end of her garden. Her website is www.medwaymaria.co.uk
