Kwame Dawes on Calabash

Somehow, in between actually running the Calabash programme, Kwame Dawes has found the time to blog about the festival this weekend, over at the Poetry Foundation blog, Harriet. Read his two instalments thus far: "Arrival" and "First Night".

Saturday evening at Calabash



Trinidadian poet Muhammad Muwakil performing at the evening open mike session

Last evening's tripartite reading by Maryse Condé, Michael Ondaatje, and Caryl Phillips--billed by the Calabash organisers as "Supersize me!"--was the festival's most popular event thus far. The main tent was crammed with people who seemed undaunted by the torrents of rain lashing outside. Sitting near the right-hand side of the tent, I had to use an umbrella to shield me from horizontal gusts.

I barely noticed the discomfort. All three writers were in top form. Condé spoke for a few minutes in a powerful, heavily accented voice before her husband and translator, Richard Philcox, read two selections from her work. Then Ondaatje jogged up to the stage, protected by a raincoat. He read "The Cinnamon Peeler's Wife", perhaps his best-known poem, and excerpts from Running in the Family, Anil's Ghost, and his new novel, Divisadero. (It struck me that his accent, though it contains South Asian and Canadian twangs, could pass for Trinidadian.) Finally, Caryl Phillips, dressed all in black, read the opening pages of his last novel, Dancing in the Dark, and his essay "Growing Pains", which I found unexpectedly affecting.

By the time Phillips had finished the rain had stopped, and the blank grey sky had turned a lovely shade of deep, dark blue--just in time for the day's second open mike session, moderated once again by Marlon James. I thought the performers were better and sharper, on the whole, than the ones at the earlier session, but I was utterly bewildered by the young man who recited, in a monotone, a poem called "Antidepressants for Life". The bravest performer was the Trinidadian poet Colin Robinson, who delivered an impassioned, moving poem about resistance to anti-gay prejudice.

And it was another Trinidadian who provided the evening's highlight. Young Muhammad Muwakil, a star of Trinidad's performance poetry scene, brought the house down with his witty, lyrically tricksy ode to an unnamed crush. When he went slightly over his three minutes and poor Marlon tried to cut him short, there were cries of "Leave him alone!", and Muhammad left the stage to thundering applause. Colin Channer actually interrupted the session to come on stage and give a loud and very Jamaican endorsement: "Bullet! bullet! bullet!" Muhammad was a very tough act to follow, and fortunately not many tried.

I'm sorry to say, dear readers, that I skipped out on the evening's final reading, by the four Commonwealth nominees for best book. I was starving. Back at our villa, a sort of informal after-party developed as my housemates drifted back, bringing various friends and acquaintances with them. Muhammad was there--he gave a private performance of his championship-winning Midnight Robber speech from last Carnival--as well as two of Jamaica's best younger writers, Marlon James and Kei Miller, and the very nice Carlin Romano of the Philadelphia Inquirer, who grilled me about the state of Caribbean literature (I had drunk three glasses of wine by then, and I hope I gave relatively coherent answers to his questions). By midnight I was almost asleep on my feet. And so to bed.

And the winners are....

Hmm--did somebody let something slip? This press release, written in a PR agent's confident past tense, announces the winners of the two Commonwealth Writers' Prizes--which won't be officially announced until the awards ceremony this afternoon. The information is supposed to be embargoed, so I won't give the winners' names here. But posting embargoed information online, where it's freely available to anyone with access to Google, isn't very sensible....

Saturday afternoon at Calabash



Marlon James, novelist and MC

The first Calabash open mike session started a little late, but the audience (now almost filling the big tent) were probably glad for a breather. Marlon James was a genial MC, cracking jokes at his own expense, and deftly enforcing the three-minute time limit--if one of the readers went over and ignored his stageside winks, he'd bound up behind them and exaggeratedly peer over their shoulder. One energetic fella almost had to be dragged off the stage.

In rapid succession we had an anti-war dub, a tribute to a stepmother, a poem (read by a girl who couldn't have been older than ten) about a cat, various poems about freedom and racism and identity, and an odd little story about two boys butterfly-hunting. I was particularly struck by the gentleman from St. Mary who managed, in a poem on an environmentalist theme, to rhyme "untreated faeces" with "diseases", and then "crop rotation" with "feed the nation". Another poet incorporated what sounded to my ear like a few lines from Tennyson: "an infant crying in the night, / an infant crying for the light, / and with no language but a cry."

Immediately after, a trio of American poets came on. I enjoyed listening to Elizabeth Alexander, then a strong desire for a cup of tea drove me back to the house. I'll be back at Jake's at 5.30 to hear Maryse Condé, Michael Ondaatje, and Caryl Phillips....

Saturday morning at Calabash



Colin Channer, D.Y. Bechard, Maxine Case, and Andrew O'Connor after this morning's Q&A session

The trouble with a programme as packed as Calabash's is that, unless you give up on eating or sleeping, you just can't take everything in. I was late for the first set of readings this morning, because I was devouring a huge breakfast at Lyric, the house near Jake's where we're staying. So I missed the first half of D.Y. Bechard's reading and never managed to pick up the plot--but I caught all of Maxine Case and Andrew O'Connor. (These are three of the four finalists for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize for best first book.)

After the readings, all three writers returned to the stage with Calabash co-founder Colin Channer for a Q&A session. "What surprised you most about Jamaica?" Colin asked. "How bright everything is!" (Case). "The pace of life here!" (O'Connor). "How friendly everyone is!" (Bechard). Well, I suppose that's the thing about clichés--there's always a grain of truth to them....

I'm now back at Lyric, sitting out the midday Calabash session, which features the American actor Mike Farrell. I'm about to take a swim, then I'll head over for the first open mike session, always a Calabash highlight, I'm told. I'll take my PowerBook with me and try out the wi-fi network at Jack Sprat. Check back later for more. And for Calabash photos, mostly by Georgia Popplewell but including a few of my own, check this Flickr tag page.

Friday night at Calabash



Joe Meno reading in the main tent at Calabash tonight

Calabash 2007 began with a sort of "meet and eat"--a pre-performance crowd eating seafood, drinking Red Stripe, and schmoozing on the lawn near Jack Sprat, the official Calabash restaurant. I stumbled upon Marlon James chatting up a Canadian film crew--tomorrow Marlon will be running the two open mike sessions. A white-haired Michael Ondaatje was sitting at a table nearby, apparently enjoying his rice-and-peas.

The evening's first performance was by the American actor Roger Guenveur Smith. His Who Killed Bob Marley? was a multimedia autobiographical exploration of his relationship with his father and with Jamaica--and a fascinating example of a black American's attempt to negotiate with the often different ideas and realities of blackness in the Caribbean. It could have done with some judicious cuts, but it was a fairly gripping performance, despite the best efforts of the Treasure Beach mongrels to interrupt.

Next up were three writers from the Akashic Books stable. I missed Felicia Luna Lemus's reading, but I caught most of Joe Meno and all of Aaron Petrovitch. I thought the last two were a little too clever and McSweeneyesque for their own good, but the audience enjoyed their spirited performances. Petrovitch had his entire piece by heart--a dialogue between two men who, he explained, confusingly have the same name. An impressive feat of memorisation.

And then everyone was meant to drift towards the beach, where a bonfire was in preparation and the party was supposed to go on till three. I decided to drift towards bed instead. But not before I post this update, dear readers.... Check in tomorrow for more Calabash reports.

Jamaica journal, part 2

The week in Kingston has flown--lunches, meetings, visits to the National Gallery and to bookshops, another dinner party with the Commonwealth Writers' Prizes people, a stroll around Mona campus to see the University Chapel and Ronald Moody's Savacou sculpture--and now I'm down in Treasure Beach, four hours drive from Kingston on Jamaica's south-west coast, where the Calabash International Literary Festival opens this evening (full schedule here).

The last time I came to Calabash--three years ago--I fell ill just before I left Kingston, and arrived in Treasure Beach with a fever and a runny nose, dizzy with decongestants, and suffering an allergic reaction to the antibiotics I insisted on being prescribed. I was also staying many miles out of the way in Black River, at an unspeakably bad hotel (one word: cockroaches). I didn't have much fun, couldn't take in very much of the Calabash programme, and in the end I returned to Kingston early, defeated.

I'm determined to have a better time this year, and things are off to a good start so far. I'm staying with my friends Annie and Georgia plus a few of Annie's friends in a lovely little villa called Lyric, looking over Calabash Bay, a couple minutes' walk from Jake's, the Calabash Festival venue.

But I'm not here for a beach weekend, tempting though the thought may be. The Calabash programme this year includes appearances by Michael Ondaatje, Caryl Phillips, Maryse Condé, Kendel Hippolyte, and another dozen or so writers, including most of the regional winners of the Commonwealth Writers' Prizes. The CRB will be available at the official Calabash bookshop, and I'll be seeking out CRB contributors, present and possible future. I'll also be reporting fairly regularly on the various events in the programme--not quite live-blogging, but close enough. So keep an eye on Antilles, dear readers, for Calabash updates, starting tonight.



The podium and stage at Jake's in Treasure Beach, with the Caribbean Sea for a backdrop; awaiting three days' worth of fiction, poetry, drama, and music, plus the announcement of the Commonwealth Writers' Prizes

Garnette Cadogan's bedside books

Friday again, dear readers--"bedside books" day. Here's a list compiled by Garnette Cadogan, who last reviewed a slew of recent Bob Marley books in the February 2007 CRB. From the size of his bedside book stacks, it's clear Garnette must get very little sleep.

Some throat-clearing before I submit my list of “bedside books.” The piles--very rarely straightened into stacks--of books I’m reading are everywhere but by my bedside. Strangely enough, I even share bed space with a pile or two, since my eyelids usually close before some page in the wee hours.

I read thematically, forming piles around current and enduring interests. A mix of books, magazines, newspapers, and, less so, blogs gather around the themes I explore. But as reading material congregate, serendipity derails me and delays the piles’ thinning. An interesting article here, a must-read book there, and, before I notice it, new piles pop up everywhere.

My piles are a mix of gifts, books sent by publishers to be reviewed, books lent by friends and acquaintances who assure me “you will love this,” and books bought everywhere from bookstores to sidewalk vendors. These are the small piles, usually five to ten subjects deep. The magazine piles, however, are hazardous, assaulting every free space as they transform airy rooms into labyrinths. What’s worse, many of these piles travel with me, since I can think of few better ways to enjoy subway rides, airplane holdups, doctors’ visits, and casual walks down the street than with my face buried in the written word.

And I haven’t even mentioned the books in my library, properly organised and in constant competition with the burgeoning piles.

Half the joy of reading is the possibility of re-reading, and a considerable amount of my current reads are renewals of nuptials rather than first dates. First meeting or ongoing familiarisation, I read because of the promise of discovery. Here, then, are some companions that satisfy my curiosity and deepen my empathy.

After a botched surgery last year (no thanks Bellevue Hospital, NYC) that finally was repaired a few weeks ago (all hail the marvelous Hospital for Special Surgery, NYC), I decided to delve into the world of medical writing, exploring the uncertainties, complexities, challenges, and triumphs of modern medicine. The plunge has been great, not least because of the graceful writing found in the following:

- How Doctors Think, by Jerome Groopman. A practical, humane, and eloquent treatise from a physician at Harvard Medical School who writes for the New Yorker. I may just buy it in bulk and deliver it to the orthopedic department of Bellevue Hospital.
- Better, by Atul Gawande. Like Groopman, Gawande does the rounds at Harvard Medical School and the New Yorker. His collection of essays is no less eloquent than, though not as organic as, Groopman’s thoughtful discussion of medical decision-making. No matter: a stimulating collection, nonetheless, that highlights how simple and ingenious practices improves medical care. You’ll never think of hand-washing the same way again.
- Final Exam: A Surgeon’s Reflection on Mortality, by Pauline Chen. I first came across this surgeon in the splendid Virginia Quarterly Review, and her thoughtful, moving writing guaranteed that I’d pick up this book. Her tender reflections on end-of-life care, not to mention her honest discussion of dealing with people who have no choice but to view life from the vantage point of the end, is an illuminating meditation on the relationship between medicine and mortality. Chen’s book is a vivid reminder of the necessity of compassion in our technology-driven age.
- I’m also reading Gawande’s recent New Yorker article, “The Way We Age Now” (April 30), and Chen’s “The Gross-Out Factor” in the Virginia Quarterly Review (Spring). Someone should convince Chen to eventually compile her articles between two covers (there’s not enough yet, but not for long, I hope).

I’ve lost count of the number of books I’ve read on writing. Just as well: most of them are a waste of time. A recent crop of books, though, have made me pause, even smile. Who would have guessed? A series of excellent books on writing published within months of each other.

- Telling True Stories, by Mark Kramer and Wendy Call. By far the best of the lot, this is about writing and so much more: thinking, organising, reporting, and, above all else, the joy of a good story. A collection of ninety-one brief yet potent essays by well-known authors (Gay Talese, Susan Orlean, David Halberstam, Tom Wolfe, Adam Hochschild, Malcolm Gladwell) and lesser-known writers who certainly should be household names, this book is indispensable to anyone who loves nonfiction. This gem discusses everything from how to reasonably deepen research methods, develop writing style, and sharpen editorial skills to why one should anchor reporting and writing practices in ethics, build a career in magazines and books, and strengthen reportorial skills. This book will certainly improve the quality of the writing life like no other. Whether you want to find an agent, polish your prose, or give up your day job to become a writer (or keep your day job while freelancing) then you can do no better than this book. Did I remember to say the bibliography alone is worth the price of admission?
- Writing Tools, by Roy Peter Clark; A Writer’s Coach, by Jack Hart. Clark and Hart’s books should be squeezed into your bookshelf alongside Strunk and White’s pithy volume. Both journalists, they offer sensible, clear advice on writing well, with a compendium of examples from fine writers. And to boot, they do it with wit (especially Clark, who is sometimes a hoot). These books can be--should be--used by beginners, but they definitely are written for people hungry for instruction from a writer’s writer. Think of Hart’s book as a commentary, which nurtures the writer from idea to final draft, and Clark’s, with its fifty incisive, practical tools, as a devotional. You need both, but you approach them differently. The result will be the same, though: sharper thinking and more sparkling prose.
- The Paris Review Interviews, vol. 1, by Philip Gourevitch. Not really a book on writing, but why argue with the writer’s superstition that one can improve one’s prose through osmosis. Ahh, the delight of hearing masters talk about their work. A wonderful collection of interviews that can be read to learn about the craft (of writing, editing, filmmaking), I like this book even more for the pleasure of eavesdropping on thought-provoking, good-humored conversations. No wonder I was spurred to reach again for The New New Journalism, by Robert S. Boynton, the best collection of interviews of reporters and writers you’ll ever read. I’m willing to bet on it.

Alas, only two piles and already the reading seems endless. Here are some other piles:

On 9/11:
- American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center, by William Langewiesche
- The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11, by Lawrence Wright
- The Emperor’s Children, by Claire Messud
+ assorted magazine articles

On Iraq:
- The Assassin’s Gate, by George Packer
- Fiasco: The American Military Adventure in Iraq, by Thomas E. Ricks
+ skyscraper-high magazine articles

On journalism:
- The Race Beat: The Press, the Civil Rights Struggle, and the Awakening of a Nation, by Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff
- Reporting: Writings From the New Yorker, by David Remnick
- A Writer’s Life, Gay Talese
- Public Editor #1: The Collected Columns (with Reflections, Reconsiderations, and Even a Few Retractions) of the First Ombudsman of The New York Times, by Daniel Okrent
- Letters to a Young Journalist, by Samuel Freedman
+ Michael Shapiro’s (2002) Columbia Journalism Review article, “The Curse of Tom Wolfe” + Ken Auletta’s recent New Yorker article on WSJ technology journalist Walter Mossberg

On Bob Marley:
Just about everything written on him. More like a pair of towers than two piles.

On Naipaul:
His nonfiction books, for a forthcoming piece in The Caribbean Review of Books. Naipaul’s radiant prose and precise, lucid observations suggest we ought to be making more of a fuss over his nonfiction. I’ve found his nonfiction more lyrical than his later fiction for some time now, and can’t help but wonder why it does not enjoy more popularity in the Caribbean. Too much of his fiction, for me, seems like more of the same (less of the same, really). Surely it’s time for us to turn more frequently to his “literature of fact,” even if he’s the Caribbean’s curmudgeon par excellence.

On Peanuts:
- The Complete Peanuts, 1950-1952, 1953-1954, 1955-1956, 1957-1958, 1959-1960, 1961-1962. This collection should be in every child and adult’s library. The comical, poignant world of Charlie Brown and pals--sans adults--is one of the marvelous gifts of the twentieth century. Charles Schulz offered us this world for a half-century (1950-2000) and Fantagraphics Books’ ongoing high-quality reproduction has, so far, given us Schulz’s first dozen years. This complete reprinting will be done in 2016 and I plan to own every volume (if I’m still around). Peanuts’ hilarity, wisdom, and visual expressiveness made Charlie Brown’s world our universe. “The world of Peanuts is a microcosm,” said Umberto Eco, “a little human comedy for the innocent reader and for the sophisticated.”

Poetry:
- Halflife: Poems, by Meghan O’Rourke
- Selected Poems, by Derek Walcott
- District and Circle: Poems, by Seamus Heaney

Favorite authors:
- The Atomic Bazaar: The Rise of the Nuclear Poor, by William Langewiesche. A pile of one. Yes, he’s that good. Graceful. Economical. Measured. Peerless.

Manuscripts:
- Ned Sublette’s The World That Made New Orleans: From Spanish Silver to Congo Square (forthcoming from Lawrence Hill Books, 2008)
- Shirley Thompson’s as-yet-untitled book on Creole New Orleans in the American Imagination (forthcoming from Harvard University Press, 2008)
- Jason Toynbee’s Bob Marley: Herald of a Postcolonial World (forthcoming this October from Polity, Cambridge, UK)
+ reams of friends’ soon-to-be-published articles and books

Fiction:
Too much overflowing, and too much half-read. This pile induces guilt. (On top is Rebecca Scott’s Ghostwalk, which is off to a very good start. Right below is Saul Bellow’s Collected Stories, a constant subway complement.)

New Orleans:
Everlasting high-rises.

And then there are the magazines and literary journals....